Dark as a Bad Dream
by Clockwork Hobbit
Summary: In the midst of darkest time the world has ever seen, even a single missing nation can upset the balance of war and peace. When England is captured in Paris, vanishing into the grasp of the nation seeking control, he has to be strong not just for himself or his people, but for everyone in the world.
1. Chapter 1

"_Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime." -Ernest Hemingway_

* * *

**Pre-war; September 1939 to June 1940**

* * *

"What do you mean, he broke the terms?" the blond snapped. "He couldn't have! Our sanctions on him are far too strict."

"Be as that may. Hitler is rearming Germany," the other man replied.

The first man narrowed his bright green eyes. "Hitler is hardly the 'he' I meant."

* * *

England looked at France and America, eyes blazing. "Under Adolf Hitler, Germany is rearming. He is breaking the terms of the treaty, and we can't appease him forever."

France frowned, not really wanting to agree with England, but finding he had no choice. They had to stop Germany.

* * *

Germany stood in front of the central government building, looking out over the square before him. Everywhere red, white, and black banners flew, showing clearly the country's new dedication to its ruling National Socialist Party-the Nazi party.

A smaller man stepped up beside him. This man was the savior of Germany, both the man himself and the country he personified. He had promised an end to the humiliation imposed by England, France, and America following the Great War, he had promised an end to the monstrous inflation and economic woes, and he had promised a new dawn of hope for Germany.

"Good morning, Adolf," Germany said calmly, using the familiar version of his new boss' name. Adolf Hitler may have been his boss, but he was also one of the first to recognize Germany's power and potential as the personification of a nation.

"It is a good morning, indeed," Hitler replied, casting his gaze out across the square in satisfaction. "Wonderful to see our people embracing the new ideals of our party and country."

Germany nodded, agreeing. He would prove to those other nations that he was a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

"Germany invaded Poland," France announced, and England looked up in shock.

"What are you doing here, frog?" he demanded.

France waved a hand airily. "Never mind that. Did you hear the news, _Angleterre_? _Germany invaded Poland_."

England blanched. "Oh god. I...I can't stand for this!"

France nodded. "This-this means war."

Despite not wanting to agree with France, England nodded. "I'm going to Parliament. I am going to declare war on Germany."

* * *

He was officially at war. He had invaded Poland and now England and France had declared war on him. They only cared because he had attacked that worthless lowlife who couldn't even decide if he was male or female. He was probably homosexual, too, Germany mused.

Germany glared at Poland in disgust. "You're a worthless mess of a nation," he told the sniveling personification at his feet. "You are ineffective, disgusting, and unnatural." He ground his boot into the embroidered, delicate fabric of the skirt Poland wore. It ripped loudly and Poland gasped. He shot a look at Germany up through his blond hair, but didn't dare say anything.

Germany scowled back, and Poland fell again into gasping sobs. He was not taking his invasion well, but couldn't say anything, couldn't fight back. He had his people to think of, not just himself.

"What is it about you that England and France had to declare war on me for invading you?" Germany growled at Poland.

Poland just squeaked in terror.

"Answer me!" Germany roared, and Poland shrunk into himself.

"I d-don't think it's, like, me," he whispered. "I think they're trying to stop you. They, you know, don't agree with your policies, and a big part of that was, like, invading me."

Germany frowned, then looked at Poland, narrowing his eyes. "But you must submit to me, of course. You don't have a choice at this point."

Poland nodded shakily, still in tears. "Y-yes, Germany."

Germany looked down at the other nation. "Pull yourself together, then come with me. You are male, so we are going to ensure that you look, dress, and act as such."

* * *

England and France were in shock, gaping at America, who stared back at them, waiting for a response.

"W-w-_what_?" England finally choked out.

America frowned. "I said, I'm staying neutral. I'm not getting involved. This is a European war; it doesn't really reach me. My boss doesn't want a reprise of the Great War, and so...um, you have to deal with Germany on your own." Uncomfortable under the stares of the older nations, he fled the room.

England and France stared after him.

"...Some hero."

* * *

Germany was at the head of a column of his men as they approached Warsaw. He was multitasking, both leading his men and keeping a close eye on the clearly miserable Poland. The subdued nation's hair was shorn to an acceptable length for a male, for a soldier, and he was dressed in uniform. He looked completely defeated, staring at the ground as the column of soldiers entered his own capital city.

Poland couldn't even look up, look around at his city. He had been weak, had let Germany overpower him. Everything Germany had said, about how he was a worthless mess of a nation, was true. He was entirely a failure as a personification. He had failed to keep his people safe. It didn't matter that he was hardly the first country to be taken over, to be occupied, he was still a failure, a godawful nation.

* * *

"Morning, frog," England said, surprisingly cordial, as he sat next to France.

"Good morning, _Angleterre_," France replied, then did a double take, spitting a mouthful of coffee back into his cup. "What are you doing here, exactly?"

"My troops arrived in France this morning. We were formally invited, in order to be closer to the war,"

Another man ran into the room before France could reply. "Sorry I'm late," he panted.

France stared at him-he _knew_ who the man was, but it was like a face from a dream: a sense of deja vu, a sense he knew the man, but he couldn't place the face, no matter how hard he tried.

"America?" England asked incredulously. "I thought you just declared neutrality…?"

The man-America?-crossed his arms and narrowed violet eyes. "I'm _Canada_, not America."

England and France looked at each other for a moment. Who was Canada…?

The realization of just exactly who Canada was hit both of them suddenly. It was America's brother, the nation to the north of the United States. He was usually quiet and remained unnoticed and forgotten, but war had an odd affect on personifications, and Canada would be damned if he let them all forget him in this war.

* * *

A member of the infantry knocked on the door. "Sir, Canada has declared war on us."

Germany blinked. "Who?"

* * *

Russia knew, of course, that Germany was in western Poland, but that didn't stop him from entering from the east. Poland wasn't worth his consideration anyway, not really. It was _Poland_, and besides, he had already been invaded by Germany. If he could deal with one invasion, he could deal with two. And anyway, he had agreed on it with Germany. What Poland thought about it didn't matter.

* * *

God. Congress was _infuriating._ They were trying to repeal the goddamn Neutrality Acts, but all the men did was argue, get nothing useful done, and condescend to America because he looked so young (they were, he reflected, much like the countries).

America leaned against the wall and removed his glasses to rub his eyes. He was so tired and so overwhelmed.

"Are you alright, Alfred?" asked a concerned voice, using America's human name because of the location.

America looked over at his boss. "Yes, Mr. President," he replied respectfully. Roosevelt looked good today, he realized, using his braces to walk instead of giving in to using his wheelchair. "I'm just a little stressed out, naturally enough. I'm worried about those like me in other countries and how they are handling everything. I wish there was something I could do to help them."

Roosevelt nodded. "I understand, and I am working on it."

Now he had to give in even more. Poland sat at the desk in his b

* * *

oss' office, staring down at the piece of paper before him. It already bore the signatures of the Nazi leaders, Germany, and Poland's boss, and was now just waiting on his own. He had to sign twice-once with his name (in Polish, of course; that was his true name), and again with his human name. That was a clever ploy, one that he was sure had been Germany's idea, one that bound him entirely. That was not usually thought of, leaving personifications a loophole to exploit.

"We are waiting," Germany said coldly, and so Poland picked up the pen and signed the surrender of Warsaw.

_Rzeczpospolita Polska_. Feliks Łukasiewicz.

* * *

England was seated in an armchair against the wall in France's Paris office, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of tea in his hand, true to form. France was sprawled across his desk chair, as informal as England was formal.

The pair was discussing strategy and tactics when England flinched, color draining from his face and his tea spilling over his uniform.

France looked oddly at England. "Are you alright, _Angleterre_?" No matter the circumstances, England never spilled his tea. France had seen him at a dead sprint still not spilling any tea.

"I'm under attack," England replied. He had recovered quickly. As an older nation he was more used to the feeling of being under attack, especially after the Great War of the previous generation. "Air raid, I think. I'll be fine."

France arched an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the tea stain on England's starched dress shirt.

England looked sheepish. "It caught me by surprise, to be honest. I wasn't expecting the raids, although I don't know why. I should assumed it to be coming sooner or later. We are at war, after all."

* * *

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Mr. President?" America turned to face his boss. He had been out of Washington for days, talking to a couple of his states on a variety of issues.

"Congress amended the Neutrality Acts."

America looked up, hopeful. "How so?"

"It is in favor of Britain and France. We will be sending over supplies for them to help in the fight against the Nazi regime in Germany, and in defending themselves and Europe against the Germans," Roosevelt said, eyes bright behind his glasses. "We will not enter the war, but we can still help out."

America grinned, imagining the look on England's face when the American aid arrived. "It's good enough for now."

* * *

He had part of Poland, but he still wasn't satisfied. And now he and Germany were racing for the Nordics. Russia was determined to get Finland, and, provided he could beat Germany there, it couldn't be hard. Finland was one of the sweetest countries, even efeminine-Sweden called Finland his wife for a reason. He could do it. No problem.

When Russia finally reached Finland, he was in for a shock. There he was greeted by armed Finnish soldiers, led by Finland himself. There was no hint in the smaller nation's face of his typical cheerfulness, of the nation who acted as the Santa Claus of the world. He was almost more frightening than Sweden.

Finland gave a half-grin. "Hello, Russia," he said. "I heard you were on your way."

The tone in Finland's voice frightened Russia, but he needed a Nordic, and, even better, Finland was so close to his own country. Russia, as any other nation in wartime, would do what he needed to do.

* * *

It had been almost three months since Russia had invaded Finland, and they were finally, _finally_, meeting to discuss peace terms.

Russia entered the capitol building to find Finland waiting for him, hands folded in his lap as he sat in one of the chairs lining the walls. He stood when he saw Russia.

"Good morning," he said, no hint of any sort of good humor in his tone. He knew what was going to happen to him. The peace treaty would be in Russia's favor, of course. If it was to be in Finland's favor, Russia would be leaving his country altogether. But that wasn't going to happen, so he pivoted sharply on his heel and headed back towards his office, not bothering to check if Russia was actually following him.

Once they reached the office, Russia pulled out the peace treaty his boss had sent over and offered it to Finland.

The other nation took it with a sigh and read it closely. Once he was done reading, he reached for a pen.

Not meeting Russia's eyes, Finland quickly signed his name to the peace treaty, then slid it across the desk to Russia. Satisfied, the victorious nation left the room.

* * *

They knew Finland had signed a peace treaty with Russia, and so were prepared for an invasion on that front. But they weren't quite ready for Germany.

Before they really knew what was happening, Denmark was occupied by the Germans and Germany was focused on Norway. The Nordics were in a state of panic. Only Sweden and Iceland were spared, and they worried over the others. Like the rest of the world, they had heard the rumors about Germany, in particular, and so so did not even remotely trust him with the members of their family.

A few days later England arrived in Norway to face Germany over taking Denmark and Norway, but he had little effect. Denmark had been properly occupied, and Norway was fighting a losing battle against the other nation. Then England was recalled to his own country, and therefore was unable to even try and help the Nordics any more.

* * *

When he reached London, England was immediately taken to see his prime minister.

"Ah, Arthur, thank you for coming," Chamberlain said, nodding at one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Curious and a little concerned-this was hardly normal behavior, and especially not normal wartime behavior-England sat. He was joined soon after by another man, and his levels of both curiosity and concern rose.

"I am resigning my position as prime minister," Chamberlain said without preamble.

"We're at war! You can't just leave!" England protested, shooting to his feet. "The American president is trying to run for a third term because of the war, Alfred told me, and the United States is neutral. Apparently he believes that the country needs some level of stability as the world goes bonkers around it. We need the same. You can't just leave!"

"Arthur, please," Chamberlain said patiently. "It's already done. And in case you don't already know him, this is my replacement," he gestured at the other man, "Winston Churchill."

Churchill offered a hand to England, who, admitting defeat, took it for a greeting handshake, before sitting down again. "I must say, though," Churchill said, speaking to Chamberlain even though his eyes never left England's face, "I do not fully understand his significance, Neville. I have never seen him before, or heard of him, and yet you seem to find him important enough to warrant this private and personal introduction."

"That you have never heard of him is, in part, the point of this meeting," came Chamberlain's reply. "This is Arthur Kirkland, England's best-kept secret-and part of the best-kept secret of the world."

Churchill didn't look convinced.

"For every country there is a person who represents that country."

"I was under the impression that is my job?"

"No, it's different." Chamberlain looked exasperated. "Oh, Arthur, you explain."

"We are not representatives," England said. "We are personifications."

"I cannot say I understand," Churchill admitted.

"Every country has a personification-a person who has been around as long as the country, who literally _is_ the country. I hear the murmur of my people-the people of England-in my head. Every time the Germans drop a bomb on the country, I feel it. I know when my people die; their deaths affect me, too. I have lived for thousands of years, and I will live as long as England is a country. My human name, the name most of my bosses have preferred to use, is Arthur Kirkland, but my proper name is England."

There were a few moments of silence as Churchill tried to digest the information. He finally opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock on the door, then it opening.

"Sir!" a gasping runner said, trying to figure out who he was speaking to-Chamberlain, the prime minister he knew; Churchill, a figure he recognized, at least; or England himself, who he neither knew nor recognized, but was dressed in military uniform. Deciding he was to report to Chamberlain, he continued. "The Germans have invaded Belgium, Holland, Luxembourg, and France."

England shot back to his feet. "Germany's got the damn frog!" he said in shock, and hurried out of the room.

* * *

He had to go back to France.

He couldn't let the frog stay under Germany.

Damn what anyone thought of it.

* * *

"Go!" England shouted as his men sprinted for the shore, "Go, go, go, go, go!" A bomb exploded, too close for comfort, and he ran as if the Devil himself was on his heels.

He risked a glance upwards to see a division of the German Luftwaffe roaring overhead, their bellies opening to release their deadly cargo.

He had three hundred and thirty-five _thousand_ of his men with him. 335,000 men he was determined to see home safe. 335,0000 deaths that, if they didn't make the boats waiting for them in the deeper part of the water, he would have to shoulder.

The boats weren't even all warships-there were too many troops for that. They had their warships, of course, but they also had small boats, and had even been forced to requisition civilian crafts. It was not a pretty evacuation. And the falling shells and machine gun fire from above certainly weren't helping.

The first of his men were splashing into the water, running-swimming, some of them-to the boats, to the hypothetical safety of British ships.

England waited until all his men were on ships before he joined them. He could afford to. A bomb blast or some machine gun fire would hurt like hell, but it would take much more than that to kill him.

Once he was entirely certain that all of his still-living troops were in boats-not all had made it, although that was to be expected-he scrambled up the ladder to the leading war-ship. "Go," he ordered tersely, one wary eye kept on the German planes in the sky.

He had never been so relieved to set foot in his own country, to watch the German planes peel away and head in the opposite direction.

"Thank god," he murmured.

* * *

He should be happy. Belgium had surrendered to him, Holland had surrendered to him, Norway had surrendered to him, he had kicked England out of France. The conquest of Europe was going well. But he wasn't satisfied. He wouldn't be satisfied until all of Europe was under his control.

* * *

Casually, conversationally, Churchill said, "Oh, by the way, Italy has declared war on us, and on France."

England blinked. "_Italy_?"

"I don't know why you're so shocked," Churchill replied. "They _are_ a part of the Axis."

"The personification of Italy is a crybaby who is only good for eating pasta and surrendering," England explained. "He is completely reliant on Germany for everything. I'm not even exaggerating, though I almost wish I was. Italy is useless. His brother, Romano, South Italy, is just as useless, though more bad tempered. Cross him, and he'll swear at you. Italy will just cry and pull out one of his many white flags, I'm not overly worried about Italy's declaration of war."

* * *

England didn't know what to think when France called him in a panic, babbling frantic French at him. The only words England could understand was his name-Angleterre. He was fluent in French from years of love-hate relationships with the other nation, but France was incomprehensible.

"Slow down, frog," he ordered. "And speak English-I cannot understand a word you're saying."

"Germany...Paris…" France panted out. England arched an eyebrow, not that France could see him, still unsure as to what the point was.

Once he regained his breath, France continued. "Germany, and his army, is in Paris. We're fighting, but I don't think we can hold them. I think Germany will move on to you once he is finished with me. I-" He cut off, and England heard muffled French in the background. "I have to go," France said suddenly into the phone, and hung up.

England stared at the phone in his hand. France had already been invaded, that he knew, but to hear that Germany had brought his army into Paris was a completely different story.

France couldn't fall! Perhaps England didn't get along with him, but he couldn't imagine life without the damn frog all the same. If nothing else, he would have no one to fight with. He almost wished he could help him, but he had to prepare his own country for the inevitability of German attack. France would understand.

* * *

Russia watched the three shaking men closely. They were his newest possessions-Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia, the Baltic States. He had just invaded them, and now they were going to live with him. The shaking was irritating, but it signified that they were afraid of him, and he would much prefer that they were afraid and shaking incessantly than that they would stop the infuriating constant trembling and not be afraid, that they stood up to him.

Estonia was a little shocked out of reality, Latvia was all but in tears, and Lithuania, though clearly terrified as well, was trying desperately to calm Latvia down.

"Shh," he whispered. "You don't want to make Russia mad. Calm down."

Russia approached, and Latvia squeaked, cowering into Lithuania. "You don't need to be afraid of me, little one," he said, ruffling Latvia's hair. "Do as you're told, and you have absolutely nothing to fear." He smiled, an honestly very creepy smile. It did nothing to comfort the terrified Baltic States.

* * *

They had fought for eight exhausting days, trying desperately to kick the Germans, who were putting down military roots in the city. out of Paris. But it had just gotten too hard. They'd get the German army out of one street or building just to find more in the next street or building. It was impossible. They were French, after all (the joke in other countries about French rifles were that they were never fired, only dropped once), against the well-trained and often unstoppable might of the German army.

And so France had reached out to Germany, offering to sign an armistice, to surrender Paris, surrender his country. Germany had, unsurprisingly, agreed.

Just a few days later Italy, whom France was also at war with, arrived in Paris. Left unsaid was that even France could beat Italy. But Italy wanted to beat someone, and he didn't want to fight anymore anyway. And so, to keep his ally happy, Germany had bullied a reluctant France into signing an armistice with Italy as well.

France quickly scrawled his name, then glanced up at Italy. The other nation was waving his arms excitedly, a huge smile on his face, babbling happily in Italian.

Germany rolled his eyes, then growled, "Shut up!" at Italy, who visibly wilted.

"Are you going back to Venice?" Germany asked. Upon receiving an affirmative answer, he continued on. "I am to head for the Channel Islands," he announced, as if France wasn't even there. "And from there on to Britain. I will have the Allies under my control by the end of the year."

* * *

**This was my NaNoWriMo 2014 project, and while I didn't quite reach the 50,000 word goal, I think I did quite well. I ended NaNo at 15,402 words, which, considering the target word count, might not sound overly impressive, but I handwrote the 15,402, and continued to handwrite the rest of the fic. Yeah.**

**As for what else this is: if any of you are familiar with Lord of the Rings, this is my hobbit birthday present. If you have no fucking idea what I'm talking about, hobbits on their birthdays give presents to their friends. I am following that tradition, as today is my eighteenth birthday. God, I'm an adult. Welp.**

**This was inspired by two sources: Elizabeth Wein's novel **_**Code Name Verity**_** (and, to a much less extent, its sequel, _Rose Under Fire_, which I did not read until I was two-thirds through writing this),**** and Cameron Kennedy's fanfiction "This Hurricane." Check out both if you have the time; both are stunning pieces both of historical fiction and straight-up art.**

**Before I forget, huge thanks to SeraphAnaklusmos and Cameron Kennedy for agreeing to beta for me.**

**Now, before any of you get on my case about not being true to my summary, the story proper starts in chapter three. This chapter and the next one are historical setup, and I had way too much fun writing them. I like having a timeline and fleshing out events (I will put said timeline in its own chapter at the very end of the fic). That being said, once we get into the actual story, I will be twisting some historical events and timeline pieces to fit my story. If anyone has a huge problem with that, well...don't read on, I guess. I will put some notes at the end of each chapter, though, that relate to that chapter. That was done in This Hurricane, and it really helped at least me (as a history nerd) relate to the story and picture things betters.**

**Notes**

**Hitler was elected chancellor of Germany in 1933. A year later, following the death of the German president, he became "Führer and Reich Chancellor," and got rid of the position of president. He started to openly rearm Germany in 1935, a direct violation of the Treaty of Versailles, the treaty drawn up after WWI (then called the Great War). **

**The foreign policy of allied leaders, most notably Britain's Neville Chamberlain, regarding Germany was appeasement-making concessions to an enemy power to avoid conflict. Chamberlain got a lot of shit for this. There is a cartoon from 1939 by a New Zealand artist showing Chamberlain on a tightrope of British prestige that is unraveling, with the post the robe is tied to labeled "appeasement."**

**I did leave out much that the Nazis did in other countries prior to invading Poland, including the annexation of Austria; it simply isn't relevant to this fic. Austria will be mentioned later, if you want to know what happened to him.**

**The event that "officially" started World War Two, according to many sources, was the invasion of Poland in September 1939. England and France were both allies with Poland, so they declared war. Feliks knew this, but he needed to make a political statement to Germany as best he could. The Polish Resistance was absolutely badass. Way more so than the French Resistance. Additionally, the Soviet Union had known that Germany was going to invade Poland-they had made a deal to divide the country.**

**There were something like three different Neutrality Acts in the 1930's in the United States. I imagine they drove America mad.**

**The French rifle joke is one that my 20th century teacher always made whenever the French came up in any war we were studying. Another joke, one from my government teacher, is that the French are only effective when led by a foreign midget (Napoleon) or a teenage girl (Joan of Arc).**

**If there is any other historical information you want, for this or any following chapter, shoot me a PM. I would be more than glad to discuss history with any of you :D**

**Also, reviews are hugely appreciated. I won't play the "chapters for reviews" game (I intend to attempt to update every Wednesday, though I make no promises), but this is my pet project, as it is, and I have put huge amounts of time and effort into this. Thanks, all.**


	2. Chapter 2

"_Remember that all through history there have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time they seemed invincible, but in the end they always fall. Always." -Mahatma Ghandi_

* * *

**August 1940 to December 1941**

* * *

England had been keeping a close and uneasy eye on Germany and his army for the past week. They were currently on the Channel Islands, too close to his own shores for comfort. It was only a matter of time before the sleeping monster just off his shore attacked.

And attack it did, an all-night air raid on London by the bloody Luftwaffe, killing civilians who had done no more than be British, and leaving England, for his part, curled into himself under three blankets with a whole pot of tea. He wanted to go out there and bloody _murder_ Germany for what he was doing to the British people, but England was in too much pain to even try.

And then the attacks didn't stop and didn't stop and eventually England grew accustomed, as all nations did, to the constant flashes of pain from bombings and the screams of his dying people. It could never be ignored entirely, but he could work around it. It had been, after all, nearly two months, and he didn't have the option to stay in bed for the duration. There was a war on, and he was a personification. He couldn't afford to spend all that time out of commission-his country couldn't afford for for him to spend time out of commission.

He was an older country, besides. He could handle a bit of pain.

* * *

Germany looked at the other two nations. Both were being their typical selves, Japan doing his "sensing the mood and refraining from speaking" thing and Italy sitting there with his tie half-undone, top button unbuttoned, a hole in the elbow of his jacket, and a big bowl of pasta in front of him.

The pasta Germany confiscated, ignoring Italy's whining. "You are a commander, Italy," he snapped. "Act like one. That means you have to focus, you have to stop being such a baby, and _no more pasta_!"

Italy burst into tears.

Fed up, Germany roared at him. "Italy! Do you want me to kick you out of the Axis? Do you want me to leave you to the mercy of the Allies?"

Italy's eyes went wide and he immediately stopped crying. "N-no! I'll behave! I'll do what you want!"

Satisfied, Germany turned back to the task at hand. "Our bosses drew up this alliance pact. It just needs our signatures." He scrawled his name on the pact, and Italy and Japan followed suit.

"There we go. We are officially the Axis."

* * *

Italy had decided to try and conquer a nation all on his own, to try and make Germany proud of him. So he had chosen a potentially easy country to invade-Greece.

Getting into the country itself was easy. He wasn't sure if Greece the person was even aware that he was there, if he had woken up or gotten away from his cats long enough to realize that the Italian army, if it could be called such, was in his country.

The Allies, on the other hand, did notice, a situation that Italy had not counted on. Only a day after he had invaded Greece, England landed there as well with his own army. Italy, being who he was, freaked out because he was terrified of England, and so he fled.

Germany had lost track of Italy for three months when he received a phone call out of the blue.

"Germany, Germany, I'm in North Africa right now and I can't tie my shoelaces!"

Germany just stared at the phone in his hand. Italy was calling, clearly in a panic, for something as tiny as that?

"Germany, _help_!" Italy cried.

He sighed. He would be no sort of ally if he didn't go help Italy, although Germany had to admit that he helped Italy far more than Italy helped him (he supposed he should have guessed that. After all, Italy's exact words in proposing their friendship were "You can order me around and I'll disappoint you!"). But Italy trusted him, and so he would go to North Africa.

Germany picked up the phone again. "Germany?" Italy asked, voice small.

"I'm on my way," Germany promised.

* * *

Germany squinted against the bright sun, looking around him. He needed to find Italy, preferably before Italy found him.

Someone behind him threw their arms around him and Germany swore, automatically elbowing the person behind him. That person let go rapidly and burst into tears. Germany sighed. _This_ was why he had wanted to find the spastic Italian before the other found him.

"Germany…" Italy wailed. "That hurt!"

Germany would have growled at the other to shut up, that his tears did not become a soldier, a commander, a nation personification, but he knew from experience that if he didn't calm Italy down that the other (and, surprisingly, older) nation would cry for hours.

He finally managed to calm the Italian down, with promises that may or may not have been lies. Then he remembered something. Germany looked down at Italy's boots. They actually were untied, and Germany groaned.

"How do you not know how to tie your shoes?" he asked, exasperated.

"Oh!" Italy replied, smiling and cheery again. "Well, I used to be able to tie them, but then all the other countries started hitting me on the head and now I don't remember."

At this Germany nodded. It made perfect sense for Italy to have brain damage (a lot pointed to it, after all), and now at least Italy had a semi-sensible reason for being unable to perform simple tasks.

* * *

Now that Germany was in North Africa, he figured that he might as well do something useful. What that was going to be he didn't know yet, but he would figure it out. He was good at that.

* * *

America was reading the news from Europe when the telegraph came. PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT TO ALFRED F JONES STOP LEND LEASE ACT OFFICIALLY SIGNED STOP COME TO WASHINGTON AS SOON AS YOU CAN STOP

America leapt out of his chair, excited. With the Lend-Lease Act officially signed, he could properly help England and Canada out.

He was very happy about the whole thing. If he couldn't be the hero because he was neutral, he could be some sort of assistant hero. It was good enough.

* * *

Italy had failed in invading Greece, naturally, so Germany decided that it was his turn to try. Of course, he was German, not Italian, and so not only managed the task successfully, but also had troops invading Yugoslavia at the same time. Italy was not entirely happy with the turn of events, but didn't dare say anything against them-he didn't want to be the next country Germany invaded.

* * *

"Thank you for agreeing to meet," Japan said calmly, sitting across the table from Russia. The Asian country showed no sign of having anything to do with the war. In fact, Russia would have thought he was completely uninvolved in it were it not for three factors: the military uniform Japan wore, the knowledge that Japan had signed the Axis Pact with Germany and Italy, and the fact that they were sitting down together to sign a neutrality pact similar to the one Russia shared with Germany.

"Of course," Russia replied. "I have no wish to fight you if I do not need to." _Not, yet, anyway._

* * *

Under increased pressure from German troops, the Allies were evacuating Greece. England looked on in despondency as his troops left, scrambling onto ships and into aircraft. There was to be no hope of winning this war if they were forced to leave wherever it was they were every bloody time the Germans showed up.

Well, he supposed, there was a slight sliver of hope. America's boss had just signed an act permitting the lend of American weapons and other supplies to the Allies.

England could only pray that those weapons were followed by America himself, and his troops. As much as he hated to admit it, the turning point of the Great War had been America's entrance. If fate was with them, it would be the same for this war.

* * *

Russia was comfortable and warm in Moscow when the news was brought. "Officer Braginski, sir, the Germans are invading the Soviet Union."

Russia swore colorfully in his own language. "We had a fucking non-aggression pact," he growled.

The messenger cowered, clearly scared for his life, as Russia was exuding his terrifying aura. "I just carry the news, sir. I don't create it."

Russia looked at him, fire in his eyes. "Go," he ordered, and the messenger fled. Once he was gone Russia stood and slammed a fist into the wall of his office.

* * *

Germany pulled his coat closer around him. He had known Russia would be cold, but not that it would be _this_ cold. Hitler had decided that the non-aggression pact be damned, they were invading Russia. Operation Barbarossa was in effect.

A messenger offered Germany a telegraph. He took it, expecting it to have come from Berlin. Instead, it was from Moscow, from a furious Russia. Germany was hardly surprised. After all, he had broken that pact they had signed and had renewed earlier that year. But Hitler had demanded an invasion, so an invasion he would get-Germany was completely loyal to his Führer.

* * *

Infuriated with Germany's betrayal of their pact, Russia contacted England.

"I don't know what you want me to do," was England's reply. "I am at war with Germany myself, yes, but I would much prefer to stay out of the Soviet Union, if possible. Nothing against you, but I have read the history books, a step that Kraut seems to have neglected. Bad things happen when foreign armies invade Russia. And, even more to the point, I have to be here, in my own country. They're calling it the Battle of Britain, you know."

"I don't need you to come fight Germany," Russia said. "At least not here. Just sign a treaty with me? We'll both work on keeping Germany distracted, that sort of thing."

Russia sounded desperate, so England agreed.

* * *

England, in his uniform, fell into his chair, dead tired. He needed nothing more than to rest, and had thought he was going to get a chance to do just that when he had been recalled to London. Instead, he found out that he and Churchill were going to meet with America and Roosevelt over some document or another on international relationships. He was not very happy-he both wanted and _needed_ his rest. But it had been denied him, and now here he was.

America sat across from him, dressed neatly in a suit and tie. England couldn't stop watching him. The island nation had been at war nearly two years, and so seeing a nation not in uniform was odd. And to see _America_ not in uniform, to know the potential superpower was neutral, well, he wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

"This is the Atlantic Charter," Roosevelt began, and England tried hard to focus on his face, his words, anything but his lower body. After watching so many world leaders pace and storm about, he couldn't get over the fact that Roosevelt was in a wheelchair.

Roosevelt continued, unaware of England's preoccupation with his handicap. "This document is our safeguard against event such as the Nazi takeover in our Western civilization."

He went on the contents of the Charter. England would have dozed off had it not been for America kicking him under the table.

Once they were finally done America dragged England off to dinner, promising Churchill to return him by the morning.

"Couldn't even stay awake?" America teased. "You really are getting old."

England glared at him. "I'm at war, you git. I've been working on the front lines since it started almost two years ago. I have been sleeping in tents and trenches for weeks on end, and the few nights I get to spend in a proper bed the screams of dying troops and the weight of the deaths of my people keep me awake,"

America looked properly chastened. "I'm sorry, man. Hey, tell you what. You can spend the night at my place tonight. We're already at dinner, and we can go to a bar once we're done here, if you want. Then, instead of going back to your hotel and your prime minister and your worries, you can take the night off and stay with me. I'll even make you breakfast." He grinned so charmingly that England found himself helpless, found himself agreeing immediately. America really had a gorgeous smile.

Several hours later a tipsy England and an almost, though not entirely, sober America stumbled into America's house, laughing. America had followed through on his promise to take England's mind off the war, sharing amusing anecdotes until England was properly cheery.

Both nations' eyes were heavy, and so America directed England into a guest room, then disappeared into his own room next door.

* * *

America was woken up in the middle of the night by heavy, gasping, tearing sobs coming through the wall. He was at first unsure what to do, then remembered England comforting him when he had been a child.

Tentatively he crept next door and knocked softly, There was no response, so he cautiously opened the door and slipped inside.

"England?" he asked, and the other's head snapped up.

"America…" he whispered, reaching out for him.

"Shh, shh," America murmured, wrapping his arms around England and cradling his head close to his chest. "It'll be okay. You'll be okay. I promise."

* * *

England woke surprisingly well-rested, for possibly the first time since the war had started. Then he realized that his pillow was oddly firm and warm, and it _moved_. As soon as his brain registered this, he also registered the presence of an arm around his waist.

The events of the past night came back to him. Being woken in the night by the war, as usual. The tears and sobs that came with bearing the death of his people. America creeping into his room and holding him until he fell back asleep-and until America fell asleep, too, if the arm around him and the chest he was resting on were anything to go by.

England sat up to look at America, and blushed-the American slept shirtless, apparently. But he was also so adorable asleep, hair falling every which way and face peaceful. England was reminded of when America had been little, a tiny fledgling nation, his colony. But the man in his bed was anything but little now.

"America," England whispered, his voice barely audible. "Oh, when did you grow up?" America definitely was no longer a child (if nothing else, his lack of a shirt made _that_ apparent), and the way he made England feel was perhaps the mark of a man.

America shifted, sleepily blinking blue eyes.

"Good morning, love," England cooed at him.

"Good morning, England," America replied sleepily, his old English accent, the one he had had as a child under England's control, in his voice. "Sleep well?"

England's heard twisted, both painfully and in a good way-a good pain?-at America's accent. "Yes, of course," he said, and, taking a risk, but one he could not resist, leaned over and kissed America.

* * *

The Axis Powers were having a meeting, and Japan wore something resembling a smirk, a look uncharacteristic for him. Italy cowered behind Germany, scared of Japan's look. Something about it promised pain.

"What is the smirk for?" Germany asked.

"You'll see," Japan replied.

* * *

It had been almost four months since that night they had shared, and America and England had arranged more as often as they were able. They had monthly meetings because of the Lend-Lease Act and America sending supplies to help England's war effort, monthly meetings they took full advantage of.

America was pacing as he talked, energetic as always. It was making England's head hurt, watching him move while listening to him talk, but he knew better than to try and tell America to sit down. He had too much energy. It would hardly end well.

And so England was surprised when America sat suddenly on the floor with a thump. "Are you okay?" he asked in concern, noting the glazed look in America's eyes.

America didn't even seem to hear England's question.

England knelt beside him. "America. America. Alfred, love," he said, trying desperately to get the other's attention.

America's head snapped up, but not in response to England's calls. "I'm fucking neutral, you bastard!" he roared, then broke down in tears, a pained expression contorting his face.

Now it was England's turn to comfort America, and he did so in an action so very similar to how America had comforted him that night four months ago. "What is it, love?" he asked cautiously.

America buried his face in the crook of England's neck, shaking with sobs and unable to speak, and so England didn't press him, only comforted him.

When a messenger brought a telegraph for America fifteen minutes later England took it, letting America be for the moment. He was still largely incapacitated. Not thinking the other would mind he opened the telegraph, scanning the two sentences there rapidly. What he read made his heart skip a beat.

JAPANESE ATTACKED PEARL HARBOR STOP MORE INFORMATION TO FOLLOW STOP

* * *

Japan's smirk turned into a look of pleasure in a task well done as he hung up the phone.

Germany arched an eyebrow, an act and question that did not go unnoticed by the Asian nation.

"My troops held successful attacks on several places," Japan explained, still with that self-satisfied look.

"Where?" Italy asked, curiosity in his voice.

"Malaysia, the Philippines, Guam, Hong Kong, Indonesia, Wake Island, and," he paused for what might have been dramatic effect, odd for Japan, "the United States."

Germany nodded, impressed, but Italy seemed less sure. "Won't America be mad? And he's so strong. What if he comes and kills us?"

Japan's eyes went wide. Germany, on the other hand, remained calm. "We will be ready for him."

* * *

"Telephone for you, sir," one of the Americans said to England. He took it distractedly, watching America on another phone with his president, a far cry from the nation who had been sobbing on the floor just an hour earlier.

"Good news, Arthur!" Churchill's voice boomed down the line, causing England to wince. "Those declarations of war went through. The ones on Finland, Hungary, and Rumania."

"Add Japan," England ordered, voice clear.

"What?"

"Add Japan. They just attacked America. Add Japan." It wasn't a request.

England got his declaration of war almost immediately, and so the next day both he and America declared war on Japan. The retaliation came a few days later when Germany and Italy both declared war on America, but the nation was hardly concerned. He could handle a war on two fronts, one in Europe and one in the South Pacific, with no problem. He was now truly the hero, after all.

* * *

**Story proper starts next chapter.**

**Notes**

**The bombings in England, mainly the London Blitz, were terrible. There are pictures of London post-bombings, and it's just huge piles of rubble. Entire blocks were completely destroyed. This happened across Europe, not just in England, but the London Blitz is one of the most infamous, along with the Dresden bombing (of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ fame, if nothing else) in 1945.**

**A World War Two book I was reading actually had the line, "By 1941 Italy was completely dependent on Nazi Germany." Hence Germany's thinking about how he helped Italy much more than Italy helped him.**

**General Rommel was the German officer who led the combined German-Italian offensive in North Africa. Interestingly, while many other Nazi groups were performing horrific acts, Rommel's Afrika Korps were never accused of any war crimes. They treated prisoners humanely and ignored orders to kill Jews. Rommel was linked to the plot later in the war to assassinate Hitler, but because he was a national hero Hitler felt he couldn't execute him. Rather, Rommel was quietly ordered to commit suicide, which he did in exchange for amnesty towards his family. The "official" reason for his death was given as injuries from an attack on his car in Normandy, and he received a state funeral.**

**The Lend-Lease Act allowed the United States to lend or lease (surprise!) war supplies ("any weapon, munition, aircraft, vessel, or boat; any machinery, facility, tool, material, or supply necessary for the manufacture, production, processing, repair, servicing, or operation of any article described in this subsection; any component material or part of or equipment for any article described in this subsection; any agricultural, industrial or other commodity or article for defense") to any nation deemed "vital to the defense of the United States." Basically, it was the US being a part of the Allies while still being neutral. Loopholes…**

**The USSR signed treaties with several nations during WWII. I'm not sure of the entire list, but I know it includes Germany, Finland, Japan, and England.**

**I did not completely invent Russia's reaction to the news of the German invasion for drama. Stalin allegedly executed the messengers who brought him the news of the invasion, and it didn't get much better from there. Reports say he stormed out of a military briefing upon hearing about the imminent capture of the Belarusian capital, furious, shouting, "Lenin founded our state and now we've fucked it up!" Then he vanished off to his home outside of Moscow and didn't return to his office the next day. When people went to look for him, he was completely unlike he had been before, seemingly frightened of the people who had come to see him (it is thought that he feared being arrested and deposed).**

**The preamble to the Atlantic Charter reads, "The President of the United States of America and the Prime Minister, Mr. Churchill, representing His Majesty's Government in the United Kingdom, being met together, deem it right to make known certain common principles in the national policies of their respective countries on which they base their hopes for a better future for the world." Following that is a list of eight points that outline wishes for after the war and the defeat of "Nazi tyranny."**

**Hawaii was a US territory, not a state, at the time of the Pearl Harbor attack, so how it would have actually affected Alfred is questionable, as it was not an official part of his country. But the thing with Pearl Harbor is that the United States government had every forewarning of an attack on the US except an actual declaration of war. They were just damned idiots and ignored the whole thing. The officials in Pearl Harbor were kept out of the loop of information, and they had made mistakes as well that added to the severity of the attacks. The movie "Tora Tora Tora" is an excellent reference for the days leading up to the attacks on both the American and Japanese fronts. Even Roosevelt himself was kept out of the information loop for a while (and I have a headcanon that America himself is told next to nothing about state secrets). The foreknowledge of Pearl Harbor may come back in later chapters. I haven't quite decided yet.**


	3. Chapter 3

"_I believe humanity was born from conflict. Maybe that's why in all of us lives a dark side. Some of us choose to embrace it. Some have no choice. The rest of us fight it. But in the end, it is as natural as the air we breathe. At some point, all of us are forced to face the truth. Ourselves." -Penelope Garcia_

* * *

**January 1942 to March 1942**

* * *

"France?" he asked in shock. "You want _me_ to go to France?"

"Of course," Churchill replied. "We need to know what the Germans are doing, and France is the closest place to find them."

England stared at him. "But you're sending _me_."

"You're hardly the only one going," Churchill pointed out.

England sighed. Churchill didn't get it. "I'm your personification. You can't just send me off to spy. I'm your top commander, your ambassador to other personifications. I have more experience than anyone else you have, than all your other commanders combined, and I _know_ these other nations. You can't afford to lose me." _I can't lose my time with America._

"You are going to France," Churchill said in a tone of finality.

* * *

England found himself on one of his own airfields, preparing to train alongside his troops. This was something he usually tried to avoid, as it put him at risk of being remembered, always a danger for a personification, but he had his orders. He had set aside his commander's uniform, personification's uniform, for one worn by his regulars. After all, he was becoming a regular, for the time being.

He was being checked in, a difficult process. All his papers were essentially forgeries, as he didn't officially exist as a human, given him by his government. His human name was on there, proper as it could be, and his birthday was the same, although they had changed the year, placing his age at mid-twenties instead of the several hundred years he actually figured his age at.

"Arthur Kirkland," the officer read. "Coming into the SOE, to go to France. You speak French, presumably?"

England nodded, and the officer just kept watching him, waiting. England stared back, confused, then realized what the man was waiting for. "Yes, sir," he said respectfully. He was used to being one of the top officers in any situation, not an underling, but he could adjust.

"Good," said the officer. "A unit of the American Air Force is coming in soon, a group to supplement our own Air Force and help take you lads to France. You will start your training soon, and do some of it alongside them."

* * *

England was sitting in the mess with a cup of questionable tea when the Americans arrived. They were a loud, boisterous group-which England couldn't say surprised him, if he was honest-flight goggles on over their aviator caps, clearly what were known as "flying aces." England searched desperately among them for a red bomber jacket, although he knew he was hardly likely to find it. He knew that America harbored dreams of being a flying ace, and he missed his...whatever America was. But he was all but certain that America would be in his own country, with his president and generals and army in Washington rather than on some random airbase in England.

Hands came down on England's shoulders, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Hey there, Artie," a velvety voice purred in his ear.

England turned around so fast it made his head spin. "Alfred! Why are you here, and not in Washington?"

America ignored the question, instead grinning cockily at England and looking every inch the flying ace he had longed to be. "These seats taken?" he asked, gesturing at the empty benches around England. When the older nation shook his head, America raised a hand to get the attention of the other Americans. "Over here, boys," he called out, claiming his own seat right next to England.

"Who's the Brit?" one of the other pilots asked.

"This is Arthur," America replied, a huge grin on his face.

"_The_ Arthur?" asked another American, raising an eyebrow.

America nodded, still with that proud grin, and the men laughed. "Jones here doesn't shut up about you," they told England. "You're like his closest friend."

England looked at America and raised his eyebrows. _Friend_?

America winked back. _Not at all_.

* * *

The SOE agents and pilots were in formation at opposites sides of the room, all facing towards the officer in the center. He was reading off pilot-agent pairings, and England and America both had their fingers crossed.

"Jones and Stuart," the officer called out, and England slumped a fraction of a centimeter. America had been paired with the pretty Scottish girl.

A runner skidded in, bringing a note with him, and the officer read it quickly. "Change of plans. Stuart, your pilot is now Brogan. Jones, you'll be taking Kirkland."

America caught England's eye from across the room and grinned.

* * *

England stared at both America and the plane he stood beside. "You can actually fly that thing?" he asked, a bit nervous. "Not that I don't trust you, but my life sort of depends on it."

One of the other Americans happened to be walking past. He heard the question and laughed. "Jones is the best pilot we've got. He took to flying like a fucking bird."

America looked so proud of himself, and England smiled. "My life is in your hands, love."

* * *

England and three other SOE agents-including that Scottish girl, Stuart-were huddled together in the back of the plane, strapping on their parachutes and other equipment. America and Brogan, one of their civilian pilots in the ATA, a girl who understood airplanes like no one else and Stuart's best friend, were in the cockpit, which was some small comfort-England had by now had plenty of opportunities to watch America fly, both from the ground and from the air as a passenger, and it was true that the younger nation was amazing at it (he didn't know why he was surprised-after all, airplanes were invented in the United States). But nothing could ease his nerves entirely at the prospect of his first parachute jump.

Stuart and the other girl, a soft-spoken brunette from the outskirts of London, jumped first, as was protocol. Then, one by one, the men followed suit, until England was the only one left.

He stood a few feet away from the edge, petrified. He couldn't do this!

America, noticing his fear, handed full control over to Brogan and carefully unstrapped himself, then making his way over to England. "You'll be fine, love," he murmured, then, checking to make sure Brogan wasn't looking, gave England a quick kiss. "Now go, before I push you." He winked and worked his way back to the front.

* * *

Once back on the ground, England went searching for America. "He's out on maneuvers," another pilot informed him, pointing up at a block of American planes roaring across the sky. One by one they peeled off, rolling, diving, climbing steeply. England's heart pounded just watching them.

Finally they all landed and America hurried over to England. "So, we were talking a while ago, and I forgot to mention it to you. A bunch of us are going into town for dinner. You interested in coming with us? We also might buck in town." He raised an eyebrow suggestively. "They miss the particular comfort that comes from having a girl in their bed. I personally would prefer a certain Englishman in mine."

As England found no difficulty in getting the night off, as long as he was back on base by noon the next day, he soon joined a host of other men headed into town.

America pulled England away from the rest of the group and towards an upscale restaurant. "We're going here, instead of to the diner with everyone else," he announced.

England opened his mouth to argue, say that this was clearly an expensive restaurant, that it was too much, but America, knowing what he was going to say, put a hand over the other's mouth.

"I can afford it. And once we kick that German bastard out of France, I am taking you to a proper romantic dinner in Paris."

England found all arguments cut off by the unexpected romanticism, such as it was, and allowed America to usher him into the restaurant.

And then a few hours later America was paying for a motel room, England loudly protesting the fact that America was paying for this after paying for dinner as well, America in response rolling his eyes.

"I'm the hero," he said as soon as they got into the room. "And I'm going to take care of you, love."

England smiled sweetly and held his arms out in a pleading invitation. For the safety of both of them they hadn't been able to do much more than those quick pounding handshake-hugs men, and particularly soldiers, seemed to give each other, and he craved a lover's touch.

America took the hint and gently gathered England into his arms, a warm, comforting embrace of exactly the sort England had been craving.

After a moment he tugged on the lapels of America's jacket, pulling the taller nation down to his level for a kiss. Once they parted he yawned, and America laughed.

"Time for bed, I do believe," he announced starting to undo his tie.

Once they were both stripped down to boxers, and an undershirt, in England's case, they crawled into bed. England cuddled up against the taller, stronger man, nuzzling into the warmth and toned muscle of America's chest.

"I love you," he murmured sleepily.

"I love you, too, Arthur," was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.

* * *

England watched the ground fall away as the airplane roared off the runway. After several weeks of training he was finally headed off to France. It was only a short trip, a week or so, almost in a way more to get his bearings for when he properly went for his real, longer, mission than anything else. But he had been told and knew anyway that if he was caught there would be the same and very real consequences were he caught.

When they reached the point where England was to jump he slid open the hatch. He and America had said their farewells on the ground, as they both had to be completely focused while in the air, and so there was nothing holding him back. Taking a deep breath, England jumped.

The jump went smoothly, and he was greeted by a smiling group of Frenchmen and -women when he reached the ground. Stuart was there as well, and he grinned at her. It was nice to see a familiar face.

"Verite?" the French asked. "Sourcils?"

England inclined his head slightly, irritated with the code name, and Stuart-Verity-nodded. From the very little England had heard, she was starting his her actual mission. She looked close to tears.

"You okay?" England whispered to her.

"We were hit by anti-aircraft fire on the way here. Maddie has to emergency land the plane, if she hasn't already gone down," she whispered back. England stared at her. Maddie Brogan might not make it to the morning alive. As awful as that was, he thanked any god there was that their roles weren't reversed, that it wasn't America having to land a crashing plane.

"Maddie will be fine," he said, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

* * *

He had never been more glad than when that week was up and he was flown home by some pilot he recognized but didn't know. It made him worry for America.

But one of the first things he saw once he was back on base and made it to the mess for a steadying cup of tea was America. "I was worried about you!" he snapped.

"Oh, the Germans can't nab our Jones," the man sitting next to America said. "Even when he's stupid enough to land for a refuel on the outskirts of Paris."

America glared at him. "You promised not to mention that."

England folded his arms. "Alfred. Explain." His tone was harsh.

"I...um…" America stuttered, not meeting England's eyes. "Fuel was a little low. There was a field, one of the ones they told us was safe for landing in if we needed repairs. I landed for refueling. German sentry happened by. Things happened from there. I'm fine."

He shot a shot a furious glance at the man next to him, who had just opened his mouth.

"Go on," England told the man. "Alfred, don't. I need to know what happened to you."

"He's fine except for the bullet in his thigh. Or that was in his thigh. It was taken out," the man said quickly, looking down at his plate.

England was furious, but tried not to show it, not yet. "Come with me," he said coldly, spinning on his heel and stalked out of the room, assuming by the hurried footsteps he could hear that America was following him.

Once outside and away from any buildings, England rounded on America. "Alfred F. Jones!" he yelled. "What the bloody hell were you thinking? You know the dangers of landing like that! And you, of all people, should really know better. It's not like you're some nineteen-year-old cocky flyboy. You're a nation; you're over a hundred and fifty years old. And, more to the point, _you are a nation_. You get captured, you put your entire country, all of your people, at risk, too."

He was expecting puppy dog eyes, but, instead, America's blue eyes were cold and hard. England shuddered. America could look absolutely frightening when he wanted to. "Yes, I know that I put my country at risk. Yes, I was damned stupid, Artie, and I got fucking shot for it. Don't you think I've learned my lesson? You really don't have to yell at me." He shifted his weight off his left leg, grimacing. "Damn, that mad dash after you hurt like hell."

England's eyes widened. He had forgotten in his anger that America was injured and had to wait for his wounds to heal. "I'm so sorry, love."

America just glared at him. "I know you freaked out over my injury, but I practically worried myself sick while you were in France. They won't do nearly as much to a downed American pilot as they would to an SOE agent." He shook his head hard, as if to clear it. "Don't just go off on me like I'm some ignorant, idiotic child." He turned and hurried off as quickly as he could on his injured leg, leaving England to stare after him. America didn't often get angry, but when it did, it was something to behold.

* * *

The time had finally come for England to leave on his real mission, and America was almost more panicked than him. Everyone on the base had heard how they had lost both Stuart and Brogan to unknown circumstances, and America was terrified of losing England. They had gotten over their spat following a flurry of kisses in the corner of an abandoned bunker and another night spent together in a hotel in town, and America was realizing more and more that he couldn't lose his England.

"Relax, love," England soothed. "I'm a personification. I'll be fine. They can't kill me."

"That just means that they can hurt you more," America argued. "And they will, if they know what you are."

England just laughed. "But I'll be fine. I promise."

"You better be."

Once again, England watched as the ground of the airbase, the ground of his country, fell away from him. It was for real this time, and the nerves were really setting in. He was going to France to spy on the Germans. He was _going to France to spy on the Germans_.

Heart pounding in his throat, he strapped on his parachute. He could see the lights of Paris coming up rapidly, and knew it was time to go.

"Farewell, love," he murmured, though he knew America couldn't hear him, and jumped.

* * *

**Woohoo, the actual story is starting!**

**Stuart and Brogan, the girls mentioned, are not OCs, exactly. If you remember, I mentioned in my notes in chapter one that I was inspired by the novel **_**Code Name Verity**_**. Stuart and Brogan are codenamed Verity and Kittyhawk, respectively, and the main characters of the novel. A nod, I suppose, to my inspiration. I'll have random references to other works throughout here...the **_**Code Name Verity **_**reference, a **_**South Pacific**_ **reference, a **_**Doctor Who**_ **quote…**

**And, okay, I'll be honest...I got a little lazy in researching this chapter. I basically went off **_**Code Name Verity**_**. SOE training didn't go quite like this, but I wanted to focus more on the USUK aspect before everything goes to hell. I mean France. As a result, I really don't have any historical notes for you all...sorry if this comes as a huge disappointment.**

**Also, there are two headcanons I love involving America and flying. One is that Amelia Earhart taught him. The other is that he prefers to fight from the sky-it makes him feel like a superhero, soaring up there among the clouds, and, more importantly, he doesn't have to see his enemy die.**

**Oh, and Sourcils, England's codename, means Eyebrows. I couldn't think of anything, and so came up with a joke, of sorts. I don't love it, but it works.**

**One final note-this could be the last chapter for a while. I'm still waiting for chapter four back from my betas.**


	4. Chapter 4

_"Fear kills everything. Your mind, your heart, your imagination." -Cornelia Funke_

* * *

**April 1942 to May 1942**

* * *

France was surprisingly nice. Not that he'd ever tell the frog that. But maybe, once the war was over, he would return, with America, of course. After all, the other nation had promised him that romantic dinner in Paris.

His constant nerves were a lot less nice, but that hardly had anything to do with the country. It instead had everything to do with those blasted Germans. He flinched every time he heard a word of German or a German accent, a habit he desperately needed to break. It could give him away, or even get him killed.

And yes, France was nice, but he was also so sick of it. The language, the food, everything. He was so damn sick of it (perhaps it was because it was forced on him, he had decided). He would practically kill for scones and tea and to hear English spoken properly in a proper accent, not the gargling thing the French used. He would even accept an American accent, although that may have to come from America himself.

And the constant traveling weighed on him. It was hard to find any respite when he was only in each place for a day or two. He hoped that would change once he reached Paris.

But, above all, he missed America. He had been in love with the other nation for years-at least since America had been torn against himself in his Civil War-but had never imagined that he could have become this dependent on the other nation, this longing for strong, warm arms and the harsher, sometimes irritating, sound of the other's accent.

* * *

America knew that at some point that day England would be reaching his first checkpoint, a safe place from which he could radio back any findings from his mission, and assure everyone that he was, in fact, still alive and well. America was really worried sick; he missed his Brit. He just hoped…

"So," one of the radio operators said, sliding onto the bench next to America, "your friend Kirkland's gone batty."

America nearly cried with relief. They had heard from England, never mind how crazy he was. "How so?" he asked anyway.

"He ended his transmission with, and I quote, 'Send all my love to America.' As if we could send love to a country. France has driven him mad."

America nearly laughed. That poor radio operator had no idea just how accurate that statement was. France had driven England mad on several occasions. And, even better, England, he thought gleefully, had sent him a message. "Send all my love to America." He knew that only America himself would understand the meaning of that.

"I love you too, England," he whispered.

* * *

He was now in the riskiest part of the whole thing, in Paris itself. And, of course, his first night there he managed to get himself caught in a shootout between French Resistance forces and German troops.

Someone grabbed him and pulled him into a crevice, away from the gunfire and the danger. "Merci," he gasped out.

"No problem," the man replied, his French rolling off his tongue in what England thought had to be a Paris accent, He sounded different from France, at any rate. "We can't have any civilians getting caught or killed," he continued. "The only problem is that now you might be interrogated as a collaborator, but Bonnefoy is usually pretty good at getting people out of the clutches of the Germans."

England gasped. Bonnefoy. That was France's human last name. And of course he would be in the Resistance. Of course he would fight for the freedom of his country and people. "This Bonnefoy," England said. "I need to speak with him."

The Frenchman narrowed his eyes. "This isn't some sort of German trick, is it?"

England shook his head. "If this Bonnefoy is the man I think he is, I have known him since we were children. We were childhood...friends." More or less.

They had to wait for the shootout to die down, but once it did, the Frenchman led England back to their headquarters. "Bonnefoy is our leader," he said, a warning tone clear in his voice. "We can't risk anything happening to him." England felt the barrel of a pistol against his neck. "Don't try anything."

He led England into the room. A cluster of people were around a table, a blond at its head. He looked up, locked eyes with England, and grinned.

"Everyone out," he ordered. "Now."

Once the room had been cleared, France crossed over to England. "Angleterre," he said warmly, clasping both England's hands in his and giving him very European kisses on both cheeks. "It is good to see you."

England gaped at France, who laughed. "I have been denied all contact with other nations, bar Germany, for far too long. Prussia is part of the Axis as well, but we are not permitted to speak or see each other due to our old friendship. You have no idea how nice it is to see another country, even one I have long had a certain animosity with." He waved an airy hand. "What are you doing here?"

England rolled his eyes. "My boss decided that it was a good idea to sign me up for the SOE and send me here to keep an eye on German activity. But I am hardly the only personification acting in an unusual role. America got himself into his own air force."

"Amerique?" France mused. "How is he? I heard rumors of an attack…?"

England nodded. "Japan attacked one of his military bases in Hawaii. But he's doing fine."

France looked closely at England's face, then laughed. "You finally declared your love for Amerique, did you not? I can see it in your face. I assume I was correct, that he loves you back?"

England looked around, needing to change the subject. France was entirely right, as he usually was in matters of love and the heart, but England was not comfortable discussing his love life with anyone, let alone the country he had fought with for years (even if that country was the country of love).

"The Resistance?" he asked. "I can't say I'm surprised, but isn't your involvement riskier than most?"

To his surprise, France shook his head. "Germany can hardly keep an eye on all his conquered nations. I have shockingly large amounts of freedom in what I can get away with. Also, the Germans left here don't really understand that I am someone of importance. They don't watch me all that closely."

England nodded, understanding. That was always the problem with having captured or conquered nations-it was so hard to keep track of them. Normal soldiers didn't know the particular extreme importance of those people, the ones who were actually nations, and, of course, couldn't be told. The other personification themselves, the conquerors, didn't have either the time or the means to watch over the others-it just wasn't practical. For just that reason, conquered nations often moved into the house of their conqueror, but that was far rarer with a war on.

* * *

France had offered England a place to stay, but England had decided it was too risky. If Germany arrived for a surprise check on France he would capture England as well, and they couldn't have that. England felt that it might be possible to talk his way out, remind Germany that he was subject to the whims of his people and boss, and couldn't disobey direct orders from Churchill, as the one to go to France had been, provided he actually faced Germany himself, but he couldn't take that chance.

So instead England found himself in a seedy motel in a questionable part of town, one where, if he paid enough, the manager and staff would turn a blind eye (and ear, if necessary) to any unusual happenings.

His room was disgusting, but he had slept in worse places in his long life. He just had to make a brief transmission back to base, then he could get some such needed sleep.

* * *

"Did Kirkland do his crazy thing again?" Smith, an American pilot, asked in interest as the radio operators came in to dinner.

"Yeah, but he changed it up a bit," was the answer. "France really has gotten to him."

America leaned forward. "What did he say?"

"The usual 'send all my love to America.' But then he added, 'France sends his love as well.'"

As the others tried to figure out what the hell England was on about, America tried to hide a smile. Not only was England still doing okay, he had found France. And apparently they hadn't killed each other, which was a relief. And, more so, no matter how irritating or useless France could be at times, or as much of a flirt as he was (America wasn't worried on that front; there was enough accumulated animosity between the two to deter anything there), or even as focused as he was on ridiculous and pointless little things, it was relieving to know that there was another personification, another nation, another man who had lived hundreds of years and had the knowledge and experience to go with it, alongside his England. It was comforting to know.

* * *

England's courage and luck were tested when he was out one day, when Germany himself walked right by the other nation. England turned quickly, praying to any and all gods there were that Germany had not seen his face (or his eyebrows). He knew the other would recognize him, at least from the Great War, if nothing else.

Luck was with him. Germany passed on, either not seeing or not recognizing England, who breathed a sigh of relief.

It had been a close call, too close, really. He knew now to be much more observant and careful.

* * *

Another week passed, and, from what England had heard from France, Germany had gone back to Berlin. There were also constant rumors of the Japanese-American war in the South Pacific, and he prayed desperately for America, not knowing that America was also praying desperately for him.

And then, and then, it happened. He was at a local bar with some of the Frenchmen he had met, ones with no ties to the Resistance, ones who didn't even have the faintest inkling who he was, or even that he was British.

Something was said, something that he found shocking. Later he would find that he couldn't remember at all what it was.

"Bloody hell!" came his automatic reply. Everyone froze, and England cursed his own stupidity. Not only was that a very British phrase, he had said it with his usual accent and in English.

He went the only place he could. He went to France.

"Help," he gasped out, eyes wide in panic. "Help. I fucked up. I gave myself away."

France gave him the best advice he could, but in the end all there was to do was go back to his motel room, the only other place he really could go, as he had no means to hide in Paris, and pray. And send one last desperate transmission.

* * *

"Hey, Jones, this came through for you," a radio operator said, handing America the transcript of a message.

Assuming it to be a message from England, America took the paper, a smile threatening to burst across his face. When he read it, though, the smile died instantly.

_Alfred-I'm so sorry._

* * *

He had finally fallen into an uneasy sleep when the banging on the door started. "Open up!"

England staggered to the door and pulled it open to reveal two men in Gestapo uniform.

"Jean Mercier?" one of them asked, using the name on England's fake French ID.

England nodded, mentally crossing his fingers and praying that would be the end of it. They would check his ID, see that it labeled him a French citizen and therefore no immediate threat to them, and move on.

Of course, he wasn't that lucky.

"You need to come with us," he was told, and was then harshly manhandled outside by one officer, while the other methodically went through the small room, looking for anything incriminating. England didn't think there was anything worth their while, but that hardly mattered. They already had him.

The car ride he was forced into was nerve wracking. He sat between the two Gestapo officers, most likely to ensure that he couldn't escape, and his heart was pounding so hard that he was sure that they could hear and feel it just as well as he could.

He didn't know if he had ever been this terrified at any earlier point in his whole life. This was an entirely new experience for him, being captured. Even worse, he had heard rumors of German cruelty, and he didn't think terrified was a strong enough word.

* * *

America was frantic. _Alfred-I'm so sorry._ It was the last thing he, or anyone, had heard from England, and it was so ominous. Anything could have happened, and America's mind was racing, churning through all the worst possibilities. He was pretty sure that England wasn't dead-after all, the country was fine, and personifications could only die if their country did, as far as anyone knew-but he automatically assumed the worst. After all, he too had heard the rumors about German torture methods, and so was terrified for England.

* * *

America's fears weren't far off. England was being ordered to reveal who he really was. The officers were convinced (correctly) that Jean Mercier was invented, and so were trying to get England to tell them his real name and reason for being in France. He refused, sticking to his cover story, and suffered for it.

He took a risk one day, though. He thought that maybe, just maybe, given the chance, he could talk sense into Germany.

"Ludwig Beilschmidt," he called out as the superior officer in charge of his 'questioning' was leaving the room.

The man froze. "What?" he asked, in some measure of shock. Good. The man then at least knew that Germany held a high rank, if not that that rank was essentially second only to Hitler himself.

"Get me Ludwig Beilschmidt," England repeated. "I'll talk to him."

God, he hoped this worked.

* * *

**Notes**

**As an interesting aside, I read this really interesting book on Auschwitz, and several high-ranking former Nazis are quoted as saying-nowadays, mind-that they don't regret what they did; that they thought, and think, it was right. I think Germany, like many other Nazis, believes, wholeheartedly, that he's doing the right thing. He'll come out of it at the end of the war, regret what he did, but for now he thinks it's right. Additionally, he falls into the curse of the personifications (or, at least, the curse of the personifications in my headcanon)-they have little free will. If enough of their people act or think a certain way, they will, too. Germany is essentially forced and/or brainwashed into being a Nazi.**

**Not really many historical notes for this one, honestly. I didn't research much (...I never said that…); rather, I pulled most of this from Code Name Verity.**

**So, yeah, shit's gonna happen for England. Oh, well. That's what happened when Allied spies were captured (although, despite other horrendous crimes against humanity, the Nazis usually treated Allied POWs well, according to the Geneva Convention guidelines. Spies were a different matter).**

**I am posting these as fast as I can...if you want faster updates, get on Cameron Kennedy's case. She's my beta, and busy as anything (no, Cam's getting them to me as fast as she can. She's awesome).**


	5. Chapter 5

"_No man chooses evil because it is evil, he only mistakes it for the good he seeks." -Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley_

* * *

**June 1942 to August 1942**

* * *

He had no way of knowing whether or not Germany was actually coming, and so he was on high alert. Any time the door opened he flinched, both hoping and fearing that it was the other nation.

But he was only, to them, a nobody, a simple prisoner, a suspected spy. Even if he did know the name of one of the highest ranking German generals, even if he did say he'd talk to that same general, there was no guarantee it would happen. They couldn't just pull _Germany_ to interrogate a captive who was, as far as they knew, no one of any particular importance at all.

* * *

Germany was in Berlin when he got the letter. At first he ignored it-what fool would actually ask him, of all people, to come perform an interrogation? That was almost like requesting Hitler himself.

But then he actually read the body of the message, and things changed entirely, thanks to two sentences.

_He says he is French, although we believe he is English, and he requested you by name. Do you by any chance happen to know an Englishman with blond hair, green eyes, and ridiculous eyebrows?_

Germany indeed knew him, and he was off to Paris.

* * *

England was dozing. He had barely been able to sleep at all since his capture-the was he was tied to the chair was extremely uncomfortable, not to mention the pain from being interrogated. The only real rest he got was when he passed out, either from what they were doing to him or from sheer exhaustion.

He was woken abruptly by a rough hand in his hair and his head being pulled back to slam into the back of his chair. Eyes watering, he opened his mouth to complain, but froze when he saw who had woken him.

"Arthur Kirkland," Germany said with a dark grin, and England gulped. He had blurted Germany's name out of desperation, believing he could reason with him, nation to nation, possibly by reminding him of how their bosses ordered them around and they were more or less helpless to resist. But the look on the other's face told him that there was no way in hell that was happening.

"So he _is_ English," the officer who had dealt with England earlier said triumphantly.

"Very much so," Germany said absently, circling England with an expression that made the smaller blond's skin crawl. "Leave us, please."

The man did, and Germany planted himself firmly in front of England. "So."

The pain and fear promised in just that one word was enough to cause England to shrink away, to try anything he could to get far, far away from Germany.

Germany's laugh was cold and cruel.

"Scared of me?" He narrowed his bright blue eyes. "You should be. Might be the smartest decision you've made in your life."

England forced himself to sit up, to uncurl from the ball he had tried to get into to in order to attempt to protect himself. He forced himself to at least appear as if he wasn't afraid of Germany.

"Here's what is going to happen," Germany said calmly. "You're going to tell me how to beat the Allies. Don't play dumb-you're a nation; I know you know. In return, you shall live in my house and under my rule, unharmed. I offer this leniency only for full cooperation. This is open to no one else, no other countries."

"America…" England whispered, almost involuntarily.

"America?" Germany asked. "This is especially not open to him. The United States is the biggest threat to my country, with the potential to become a superpower. He cannot be allowed to keep any of his strength. I will defeat him, and then I will destroy him."

England paled.

Amused by his reaction, Germany continued. "I will enjoy making him scream, ripping him apart. Perhaps I will pull his states apart and against each other. I heard that affected him badly before, during his Civil War. He acts so strong. It will be a pleasure proving him weak."

"Don't touch America!" England growled, stupidly not caring if this was revealing any sort of weakness to Germany. He absolutely had to defend the younger nation, the one he...loved. Yes, he loved America. "Don't you bloody dare touch America."

"Do you have a soft spot for that brat?" Germany asked, almost _cooed_. "I thought you hated him, after all he's done. After he left you, as he's rising to great power, the kind you had before he started tearing your great British Empire apart. I'm surprised you can even stand him. And yet, you not only stand him, you _defend_ him."

England bit his lip, turning his head. He had given away too much.

* * *

England had a soft spot for America. Germany started to file that fact away for later use, then stopped, staring at England. It almost seemed as if...no. England _couldn't_ be-it was illegal in his country...but it looked as though he was. Disgusting.

"You're a fucking fag, aren't you?" Germany asked, disgust and loathing evident in his tone. "You and America…" He shook his head. "And I was going to be so nice to you." His dark grin returned, and England flinched. "But you just had to be so fucked up that you left no hope for yourself."

He stalked out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind him. He then went directly to the offices reserved for the use of the Nazi officials. There he met with the next ranking officer.

"Kirkland is mine. No one touches him except with my express instructions," he ordered. "He is of a rank with me."

The other man's eyes went wide as he realized the implications of that sentence.

Germany continued on. "As such, he knows nearly all, if not everything, of Allied battle and war plans. My goal is to get as much of that information out of him as I can, because with that information we could win the war, and therefore rule the world."

* * *

When the door slammed shut England flinched once more, then sighed in relief and finally let his guard down. And then, to his embarrassment, he started crying.

He didn't like acting like this, afraid and in tears, but he couldn't help it. He was so afraid of Germany-he hadn't really been that afraid of the other nation up to this point, but it was a different story now that he had been captured-and he was so afraid for America, too.

* * *

_I will enjoy making him scream, ripping him apart...proving him weak._

God, no. England would do anything to prevent just that.

* * *

Germany was considering what he was going to do to England. He needed the information the other could give him, of course, but he also wanted to make the other suffer, suffer just as much as he himself had after the Great War.

America was one way, he realized. He could make up lies about the other nation and feed them to England, who would never know the difference. After all, he was hardly going to be able to go anywhere or see anyone. Germany would be sure to instruct his men to only speak about the Americans in the way he commanded-as if the Americans were losing. He could drive England absolutely mad just by telling him lies about America.

It was an excellent start.

* * *

A few days later the door slammed open, and two men in German uniforms hurried into the room. They were talking loudly in German, a language England could usually understand, if not speak. Their topic of conversation, as far as the Brit could tell, was some American airman who had been shot down near the coast. An American airman with bright blue eyes and blond hair-the Aryan ideal, which was why they were so focused on it, even if he was American and wore glasses and had a stupid cowlick. The American didn't seem at all concerned for himself, just kept asking after and calling for 'Arthur.'

England panicked, thrashing, fighting desperately against his bonds. They had captured an American, one of the country's flying aces, with blue eyes, blond hair, glasses, and a cowlick, and he kept calling for an Arthur.

"Let Alfred go!" he screamed. "Beilschmidt, you bastard, let Alfred go!"

Germany was seated in the next room, a satisfied smirk on his face. He had gotten exactly the reaction he had wanted out of England-fear and panic for America. Now he would let the knowledge that he had America, though it was false, grab hold of England and slowly drive him mad with fear.

Maybe, he considered, he could swap false promises of leniency towards America in exchange for the information he wanted from England. The island nation was seemingly completely in love with America, so he would do anything for him, wouldn't he? Germany hoped so, at least.

His mind wouldn't stop racing. He couldn't stop thinking about what he had heard of America.

England was an older nation, one who had been through so much in his long life, so he knew he could most likely handle anything Germany threw at him. But America was so young and had never faced anything of the sort before, and so England worried. He couldn't let America get hurt.

* * *

America, as it happened, was perfectly fine and in his own country, meeting with Roosevelt. His troops were mounting offensives in the South Pacific and he needed to be caught up on the situation there. But it was nothing hugely important, and he was completely focused on worrying about England anyway,

"Alfred," Roosevelt finally said in exasperation. "What is on your mind? We're talking about the war and you are not focused at all. This is unlike you."

America looked at Roosevelt somewhat guiltily, trying desperately not to look panicked. He really didn't want Roosevelt to know how terrified he was. "Uh, Germany captured England, I think."

Roosevelt furrowed his brow. "No, the Brits held off the German attacks. You know that; you've been in England these past few weeks."

America shook his head. "Not the countries, the personifications. The people like me for England and Germany. Germany...uh...Ludwig Beilschmidt, I'm pretty sure, captured England. Arthur Kirkland. I'm almost certain. England's the person I'm closest to. I'm really worried about him."

* * *

There was so much he wanted to do to England, but he was being called away. Hitler wanted to keep going in Russia, and Germany was being summoned there to help lead that offensive. Hitler's recognizing of the power and potential of the personification of Germany came at the price of having much more to do than usual. He had a war to plan, battles to arrange, England to interrogate, and the Allies to keep off his tail. He was swamped. But he could handle it. Of course he could.

* * *

"That Nazi bastard has England! I heard he recently went to Paris, suddenly and unexpectedly. I bet Arthur's there."

"Alfred, calm down."

"No! I _can't _calm down until I have Arthur back. I'll rip Paris apart if I have to."

* * *

**This was all beta'd and ready for you guys last week, actually (more or less; it was on Google docs, not the doc manager here). However, I was in New York City on a school trip (we went to the Museum of Modern Art and the 9/11 Memorial and Museum...it was an awesome trip!), and I was out all day. I reported to school at quarter of six in the morning and got home after eight at night, so I wasn't on my computer all day, and trying to get this shit together and formatted is a right bitch on my phone. Trust me, it's awful. And I really didn't want to break my schedule, so I held off until today instead of posting last Thursday. **

**I have two chapters typed and awaiting being beta'd, and a whole bunch of chapters that need typed (almost the entire story is already written...I just started the fourth chapter from the end). However, I am a senior in my last semester of high school, and, as such, slammed with work. I will have this stuff out as quickly as I can, I promise!**

**Notes**

**Okay, so, German torture. The Nazis committed horrible war crimes during World War Two, so, as we discussed in my writers' group, basically anything goes with the torture shit. Not that I really know how to write it anyway (no, I **_**know**_ **how to write torture, I just don't know how to make it not sound tacky and crap). **

**The Nazis saw America as rich, vulgar, corrupt, and uncultured, a land run by Jews, clinging to a degenerate form of democracy. As America was, and continues to be, a "melting pot," and the Nazis were extremely concerned with racial purity, they had problems with America. However, I feel like as a nation, Germany would have to recognize America's potential to become a superpower (he wasn't officially recognized as such until after World War Two; same with the Soviet Union).**

**I did want Al in the South Pacific, just so I can explore another front of the war, and so I can get Japan into the war. Japan really only fought in the South Pacific (and in China...the Rape of Nanking was worse than the Holocaust, honestly. Look it up if you're interested...the pictures are horrific. Civilians slaughtered in masses, just for being Chinese and in the Japanese soldiers' way, gang rapes, all that. Over a six-week period, before the war even started, Japanese troops killed somewhere between 40,000 and 300,000 Chinese civilians. Terrible stuff.).**


	6. Chapter 6

"_No one thinks of himself as a villain, and few make decisions they think are wrong. A person may dislike his choice, but he will stand by it because, even in the worst circumstances, he believes it was the best option available to him at the time." -Christopher Paolini_

* * *

**September 1942 to December 1942**

* * *

Upon hearing about England being missing and America's threats to destroy Paris to find him, Roosevelt had sent America to the South Pacific, both to keep him well away from Paris and to distract him by having him focused on the war on a different front.

It worked a bit, but what really helped were the people America met there. He had met the "Seabees," a Navy group, as soon as he'd arrived, then had gotten lost and bumped into a pretty nurse named Nellie. A few days later a lieutenant from another island arrived, and, as a higher ranking officer, America was assigned to greet him.

"Lieutenant Cable," the man said, shaking America's hand.

"Jones," America replied.

* * *

The pair became friends, with Nellie often joining them, and a week or two later America was on the beach with them. They were both talking about the people they'd fallen in love with on the island.

"She's Bloody Mary's daughter," Cable said. "And damn, is she gorgeous."

"He's older than I am," Nellie admitted. "A good deal so. And French,"

America started laughing. "Sorry. I know a Frenchman, and he's an...interesting character."

"What about you, Jones?" Cable asked. "Do you have a girl back home? I've never seen you so much as look at any of the girls here."

America hummed an affirmative, and Nellie leaned in closer. "What's she look like?"

"Blond, green eyes, ridiculous eyebrows. British."

"Does she have a name?"

America bit his lip. He didn't know how the others would receive the news that his "girl" was actually male. "Do both of you promise never to say anything to anyone about it?"

Cable simply nodded, and Nellie looked offended. "Of course we promise! Now, what's her name?"

"...Arthur."

There was dead silence as Nellie and Cable processed the information.

"Wait," Nellie said in confusion. "Arthur. Like a guy."

"Yeah," America said softly, not looking at either of them.

There were a few more moments of awkward silence as Nellie and Cable stared at America. Then Cable took a deep breath. "So, Jones, I heard a rumor that Roosevelt himself is the one who placed you here, and that you're actually pretty high up in the chain of command in our military. And truth there?"

America folded his arms. "Where did you hear _that_?"

"So it's true, then?"

America found himself unable to deny the accusation. "Well, yeah, but I prefer to _not_ have people aware of that. So, where did you hear that rumor?" He looked furious.

Cable shrugged. "It's going around base. Everyone's heard it."

"Loose lips sink ships," America said crossly.

* * *

Germany had been gone for a few weeks, a few weeks of England being saddled with his thoughts and precious little else. He was so afraid of where Germany was and what he was doing-if he was hurting America.

Then, one day, as unexpectedly as Germany had left, he returned. "I'll offer you a new deal," he told England. "You tell me what I want to know, and I will offer a measure of leniency to America. I've been with him just recently, and believe me, he could use it. You don't want your _lover_ to be more hurt than he already is, do you?" The stress on the word 'lover' was a direct jab at England, who flinched appropriately.

Of course England wanted to save America, but he couldn't sacrifice the lives of thousands, even millions, of people, both his and those of the other Allied countries, for the sake of one person, no matter who that person was. America would understand. Nations were forever sacrificing for their people-it was an essential part of being what they were.. They had so little free will-everything was based off of their people and their boss. They were so strongly influenced by their people, and they sacrificed everything, even their own emotions, in many cases, for people who didn't even know, couldn't even know, they existed. It was a lonely, potentially miserable existence, but one that was all they knew.

"No," England replied, more calmly than he could have thought possible. "I don't want America to suffer and I don't want to suffer myself, but I have my people-and the people of the Allies and the whole world-to put before myself."

Germany backhanded England across the face, and England ended up having to spit blood from the fresh wound where he had bitten his tongue. Then he looked up at Germany, green eyes filled with hate.

"This is my only offer of any sort of leniency or kindness," Germany warned.

England laughed scornfully. "You call this kindness? I have not left this room for weeks, have been tied to a chair when mood suits you, and you order me to tell the secrets of my country and call it kindness. If this is your kindness, I would hate to see your cruelty."

"Oh, you will," Germany promised darkly, then left England.

* * *

Everyone had withdrawn from America because of the circulating rumor of him being directly under the President, and that he had been transferred to the South Pacific by direct order from Roosevelt himself. It was grating on the nation's nerves, especially as he worried more and more about England. He needed a distraction.

"Sir!"

America looked up. "Yes?"

"The Japs are trying to retake Henderson Field, sir!"

That was just the distraction he needed.

"Anything from Tokyo Rose?" America asked calmly, already heading towards the center of the base.

"No, sir," the other man replied, looking at America a little warily.

America caught this look and stopped dead, removing his glasses to rub his eyes, "Listen. I'm not here to report on any of you to the President or anything, okay? Honestly, I have bigger things to worry about. If you lot want to spread rumors about me, spread this one: I'm in love with a Brit, an SOE agent, who went to France and got captured, and I'm here so I stop worrying about it, or so I don't tear Paris apart brick by brick to try and find Ar-my love. I am _just like_ the rest of you."

_Except, of course, for the part where I am the hypothetically immortal personification of the United States of America._

The man nodded, and together they headed the rest of the way to where the troops were gathering.

* * *

The field was chaos. Though, America thought, at least on this front it was easy to tell who was the enemy and who was part of his own troops.

And then he saw him, an oasis of calm in his spotless white uniform. As far as any other American could tell this was just another Jap, but America knew better.

America strode purposefully towards the other, seemingly unaware of the battle raging around him. He didn't even realize that he had pulled out his pistol until it was pointed directly at the other nation's head. "Hello, Japan," he said coldly.

Japan turned to face America, still the epitome of calm. "America. Can't count of any of your 'backup' this time?"

"I'm the hero. I don't need to depend on anyone to save me."

Japan raised an eyebrow. "Too lazy, then, to defeat us on your own? You always send someone else to do your dirty work, to take us on. I think that perhaps you are just like Italy-too afraid of the other nations to really try and fight. After all, for all your fuss you are still, in nation terms, just a baby. Or, now that I think about it, perhaps your bluster is nothing more than the wails of a child."

America was about to explode at Japan in fury when he realized that was exactly what the other wanted him to do. So, instead, with a conscientious effort he took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

"Think what you wish," he murmured. "The fact remains that I am the hero, and that I do not lose."

Japan drew his sword and America gave an almost feral grin. "You're on, Jap," he said, a dangerous gleam in his blue eyes.

* * *

England kept thinking about what Germany had said, his promise of pain and torture, and he had to admit that he was terrified. He flinched at shadows and every noise, no matter how small, not to mention the terrible nightmares he suffered from. It wasn't good.

"The Americans met the Japanese at Guadalcanal," Germany said casually one day. "Big battle." What he left unsaid was that the Americans had won.

England raised a substantial eyebrow. "So? You already have America."

Germany cursed himself internally for the mental lapse. He had forgotten that particular lie he had told England, had forgotten it in his rush to pass on news of the battle.

"Well...I'm sure it didn't help him, his people dying," Germany said, trying to cover up his failure.

Luckily, England bought it.

Germany left before he could make any more slip-ups, calling as he did, "Any time you're ready to tell me Allied plans, well, you know where to find me."

* * *

England stared after Germany's retreating form until the door slammed shut, then cursed. Germany always gave him those tantalizing hints about America, but never anything concrete. It was absolutely infuriating. He needed to know America was doing. It was important to him, god damn it!

But then again, he reflected, that would be why Germany wasn't telling him anything. The bastard knew exactly how to hurt England, despite not _really_ having laid a hand on him yet.

* * *

The next morning he was rudely awoken by a bucket of cold water dumped on him. He awoke spluttering and shouting in confusion just to see Germany standing there and leering at him.

"Good morning," he said, setting down the bucket.

"Is it?" England replied flippantly, now over his confusion. "Did you _have_ to wake me like that? A bit rude, don't you think?"

"I am hardly here for your comfort," Germany pointed out as he laid an assortment of items on the table before England, none of which looked particularly good, instead looking like things designed to cause pain.

England gulped. It seemed that Germany was going to abandon his hands-off approach and make good on his threat of torture.

A soldering iron was the first thing he picked up, making sure it was properly heated before he approached England.

"I've given you your chances to choose to talk. Now I am going to force you."

The iron burnt into England's skin, and he screamed. The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced before, even though he had experienced indirect pain from being a nation and having things happen with his country. This was direct, this was going to scar, and this hurt like hell.

He couldn't handle it, he couldn't… but he had to. He had to hold out for all the people in his care and under his protection. The burden of being a nation was a hard one to bear.

* * *

Half an hour later England was left gasping, perhaps sobbing-he couldn't tell anymore-alone in that room, in so much pain. Germany had been methodical, even clinical, in his approach to the torture, and that had made it all the worse. It had been entirely impersonal to him, as if he had been deaf to England's screams. He probably was so used to the screams of the tortured that he was desensitized to them, England reflected. After all, he was the personification of not just Germany, but Nazi Germany. England had heard some of the rumors of what happened to Jews in conquered countries, so he knew some of what the Nazis were capable of.

A hand gripped his chin firmly, yanking his head up and England out of his thoughts. Green eyes, pain-filled yet still defiant, met stone-cold blue ones.

"Well?" Germany asked.

England shook his head. He wouldn't tell Germany anything. Ever.

"Answer me," Germany growled at him, punctuating his words with a slap across the face.

England opened and closed his mouth a few times, working off the pain from the slap. Germany raised a hand warningly, and England took a deep breath. "I will never tell you anything. Do what you like, but you will get no information from me." His rational side knew it was stupid to taunt Germany like that, but he couldn't help it. Not when he was so filled with fire and anger. "I don't even know the most recent events of the war. What could I tell you?"

"Plenty," Germany replied. "Strategies, locations of airfields and bases, important people in your military. Anything you know. As for the war, my forces made a strategic retreat from North Africa to focus more on Europe." He shrugged casually.

Or, he thought bitterly, the British bastard's troops drove his own out of Egypt and North Africa, and then, in return, his men took an (unoccupied) region of France.

But Germany knew enough of tactics to make it sound as if he was doing well and not to give the island nation any hope.

* * *

The Japanese were out of Guadalcanal, a fact for which America was extremely grateful. He had telegraphed to the White House, begging his boss to send him to fight in the war in Europe, but Roosevelt, knowing exactly what America was up to, refused, insisting that the personification was needed more in the South Pacific theater of war, saying that other nations could hold the European front.

What Roosevelt didn't say was that he couldn't risk his personification for the sake of another. He had seen that backfire on Churchill.

America was about ready to kill his President for the decision. He needed to go find England, but was instead stuck in the godforsaken South Pacific hunting Japs and panicking over the nation he loved. It was not a good time for him. British troops came and went, as the two countries were Allies and the Brits were helping in the South Pacific (after all, they had declared war on the Japanese after Pearl Harbor at England's urging), just as the Americans were helping in Europe. But seeing and hearing them made America think of England, and god, he missed his grumbly, stubborn, insult-prone, tea-drinking, perfect boyfriend. He would rescue him somehow. He was the hero for a reason, of course.

* * *

"Merry Christmas, Jones!" Nellie called. America started. He had ignored the hubbub around the camp, and had forgotten that that day was Christmas, and all he could do was think of the previous Christmas. It had been after he had entered the war, but Roosevelt and Churchill had given him and England a few days off to do as they pleased. Naturally, 'as they pleased' had been spending time together. It made America sad to remember it.

But he plastered on his very best fake smile. "Merry Christmas to you as well, Nellie."

* * *

England's version of a Christmas present was Germany being summoned back to Berlin, giving the suffering island nation a much-needed reprieve from the constant barrage of pain and fear.

"Happy Christmas, Alfred, love," he whispered into the empty air. "Stay safe and keep fighting. I love you."

* * *

Germany was greeted in Berlin by a far too cheerful Italy. "Happy Christmas, Germany!" the brunet crowed. "I got you a present!"

He pulled a small package out of god-knew-where and proudly handed it to Germany.

"I'll open it later," the stronger nation said. "I have things to do right now."

* * *

Around the world people wished their family, their friends, their neighbors, their fellow soldiers, and even, at times, their enemies, merry Christmas. It was as close to a time of peace as they had experienced in years.

* * *

**Notes**

**The Seabees, as well as Cable and Nellie (and their love interests) are all from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical South Pacific. I may have said this on other chapters, but I'm drawing characters, situations, and quotes from other works. There are quotes from Doctor Who and my favorite book (**_**The Queen of Attolia**_**) in the chapter I've been writing.**

**Homosexuals did serve during World War Two, though they could have been discharged for coming out or being found out. Al felt he could come out because, hey, they can't get rid of him, and he knows that. Basically no matter what he does, he can't be discharged.**

**The Battle for Henderson Field (the battle in which America faces Japan) took place from October 23rd to the 26th on and around Guadalcanal. It was the third of three major Japanese land offenses during the Guadalcanal campaign. The Americans lost somewhere between 61 and 86 men, whereas the Japanese lost between 2,200 and 3,000 men. A bit of a decisive American victory.**

**Tokyo Rose was the codename for multiple English-speaking female broadcasters of Japanese propaganda. Her purpose was to lower American morale in the South Pacific, although the American soldiers often read between the lines of the messages to discover the true effects of their attacks on the Japanese (and the Americans even, sometimes, were warned of Japanese plans by Tokyo Rose). Stories say that Tokyo Rose was frighteningly accurate, down to naming units and even individual servicemen, although these stories have never been confirmed. Iva Toguri is the most famous name linked to Tokyo Rose. She was actually from Los Angeles, and was in Japan visiting family when the war started, stranding her (possibly a good thing, as that could have saved her from Japanese internment). She was one of the war's most vicious propagandists, but not a Japanese sympathizer, and was arrested and convicted of treason after the war.**

**This is completely unrelated to the chapter, but it's a little awkward to try and write a World War Two/Holocaust fic with dark/Nazi Germany when you have a German living in your house and shadowing you around school. Just saying.**

**Finally, and I don't want to sound needy or bitchy, but as much as I appreciate all the favorites and follows (11 and 25, respectively; thank you all so much for that), I would really, really, really appreciate to hear what you think about this. Love it? Let me know. Hate it? Let me know what I could do better. Need to bitch about England's situation or my historical accuracy (or lack thereof)? Let me know. Thanks :D**


	7. Chapter 7

"_I learned to play the instruments of war and paint in blood." -Cassandra Clare_

* * *

**January 1943 to February 1943**

* * *

Christmas and New Year's had been nice, or as nice as they could have been, all things considered. America would have liked a white Christmas (he was a bit of a romantic in that sense), but snow in the South Pacific was a rather unlikely event. At least, he thought, it had been better than that one Christmas when he had been young, during a different war, and he had helped launch a sneak attack on different Germans.

America sat at his desk, writing a letter to England. He knew that the other would never get it-like he had any idea where to send it, anyway-but it made him feel better.

_Hey, Arthur. I miss ya, you know. And God, am I worried about you. Terrified, really. I've heard stories about what the Germans do to political prisoners; can you blame me for being terrified? I don't know what I'll do if that bastard breaks you. Kill him, probably. Rip him limb from fucking limb for even daring to touch you._

_I'm doing fine, myself, out here in the South Pacific fighting me some Japs. Even faced Japan himself. I won, of course. I'm the hero; I couldn't lose!_

A scuffle outside drew America's attention away from his letter. A great deal of yelling and a few fired shots ensued, and America listened carefully. Was that _Japanese_?

He left his office and was faced with two struggling men in Japanese uniforms held by several of America's own troops.

"Him!" one of the Japanese exclaimed. "Him the one we sent to get." He pointed at America, in case his broken English didn't the point across.

America sighed. "Kiku Honda sent you, yeah? Of course he did. No one else around here would know who I am. Why am I not surprised? Dirty move, Jap." He shook his head. Purposefully targeting personifications in this manner was smart, of course, but it was also a banned move under all rules that had applied to personifications for centuries. But America had to admit that Japan seemed desperate.

Disgusted, America returned to his letter.

* * *

The rules forbidding targeting personifications could be circumvented, of course, if, say, the personification in question was in a country as a spy and managed to slip up and get themselves captured as a human. That was their own damn idiot fault.

England, for at least the millionth time in the last several months, was cursing his own stupidity. He still couldn't believe that he had been so distracted and caught so off-guard as to have slipped up in the way he had. He had been exposed to all sorts of situations in training, even had been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night for mock questioning, and had never slipped up. He couldn't figure out what had made the instance that had been his downfall any different.

And yet, it had been.

It had been months, felt like approaching a year. He had been through enough seasons, he thought, to make it nearly a year, anyway. The mild of spring, when he had been caught; the heat of summer, unbearable in his captivity; the chill of autumn; and, now, the frigidness of winter.

He had hardly been out of the godforsaken room for ages. There were windows-though barred, of course-not that they offered any comfort. The bars in and of themselves were depressing enough, and the view was even worse. Paris had always been the City of Light (and France had rubbed it in, naturally, the damn frog), but now it was anything but. The street below England was bleak and bare, the only color the fluttering red of the Nazi flags. It was a view hardly worth the energy he expended getting to the window.

The room was so small, and god, he was sick of it. And, in addition to the fact that he had been endlessly cooped up in a bare stone and wood room with only his clothes to keep him warm, there were the lasting scars and bruises, the lasting aches and pains, of torture, as well as the reminders of it in the very walls of the room, the walls that had absorbed his screams, in the chair and the table and the faint remains of bloodstains that he could see in the flickering light if he looked closely enough.

Every time he closed his eyes his mind conjured up the image of Germany, his dark uniform and huge, muscular physique that dwarfed England and his goddamn Aryan ideal hair and eyes and the shouting and the _fucking_ fear. He couldn't sleep at all, not as afraid of the Nazi bastard as he was. He was such a goddamned coward; it was pitiful. He was sure that America wasn't afraid of Germany, not America the brave, amazing hero. And then America would find out just how much of a goddamn coward England was. and then England would lose the man he loved. Germany was tearing everything from England, and it looked as if he had a decent chance of succeeding. No, more than decent-all but assured. England was going to lose his dignity (if he even still had any of that), his country, his people, and his America. Damn the possibility of losing his life-he would hardly have any use for it anymore after losing those other things.

He was, in addition, engaged in a torturous waiting game every single second of every single bloody day. Waiting for Germany to return and demand answers he refused to give-that had to count for something, right? Dear god, he hoped that counted for something, because he didn't think he could bear that his only remaining lifeline, fragile as it was, be nothing more than a strand of whispered wishes and dust.

And then England realized something else that Germany was beginning to tear from him-his very mind. The goddamn fucking bastard.

* * *

The boy-for that was just what he was, for all he wore the uniform of an SS officer-stood strong and straight at attention as Germany examined him. He had the incredible good fortune to be gifted with the perfect combination of Aryan traits, much like Germany himself, which would serve the boy well.

He was newly assigned to Paris, fresh out of training and sent to help keep the French Resistance down. But Germany had another task for him. A proving test, of sorts.

"In that room," Germany said with a gesture to the door in front of them, "is an English spy. He knows what information I want. See if you can get it."

He knew the boy would get nothing out of England. If he himself couldn't get any information, the chances that a barely trained and unblooded boy soldier could were slim to none. But, if nothing else, it gave him a welcome break. And besides, he outranked the kid by an unimaginable amount. The boy was brand new, maybe a low-ranking officer, and Germany was not only a very high ranking officer, but the personification of his country. He could order anything of the boy and it would get done. That was how the army, and the SS especially, worked.

Germany leaned against the wall, smirking. He honestly enjoyed breaking the island nation. England was one of the countries who had humiliated and destroyed him after the Great War (he supposed it couldn't be called that anymore, not with the scope and spread of this war), and he was enjoying returning the favor.

* * *

The door opened and England looked up, expecting to see Germany. However, the person who entered the room, despite being blond with blue eyes, was far too young to be Germany, as well as not built properly. It was clearly some other member of the SS, an interesting development after Germany had claimed England as his own to interrogate.

England raised an eyebrow.

"Don't look at me like that!" the boy snapped. "I am your superior in every way." He gripped England by the chin and pulled his face up so that they made eye contact. "Pity they're so green. At least you're blond."

He slapped England, and the personification growled.

"Aw," the boy cooed mockingly. "Does the poor spy not like that?" He pulled his lips back from his teeth in a smirk-or maybe a snarl. Germany had the same expression. England wondered idly if they taught that expression in SS training as a way to intimidate enemies.

The boy seemed hardly prepared for torture-no pins, no blades, no soldering iron-but, it turned out, he had no need for any of that to break England's fingers. The other things had been incredibly painful, as was this, but those had been sharp pains. This was a sharp pain for a few seconds, then a dull, spreading ache. England found that he couldn't watch. He rarely could, of course, but this was somehow worse.

* * *

France was out on a walk, innocently, for once, nothing to do with the Resistance, when the faint sound of screams caught his attention. He shook his head. Some new poor bastard had been brought in by the Nazis, for whatever reason. Pity that he, whoever he was, wouldn't survive until the planned Resistance break-in. They were still in planning stages, over an unfortunate six months away.

He felt a brief flash of remorse for those who wouldn't get out in time (not alive, anyway), but quelled it. There was no point-if they went in early he would only lose a large number of his own people and hardly save anyone. And besides, as a nation he had learned not to feel anything for humans. He had made that mistake once, and he had vowed never to make it again.

So he walked on, unaware that the screams he had heard belonged to England.

* * *

"You...bastard…" England gasped out, glaring up at Germany. It had been two days since his fingers had been broken, and they still ached unbearably, which Germany was taking full advantage of.

Germany narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps you need to be taught respect," he replied.

England flinched. Normally he would snip back how he couldn't have respect for anyone in a Nazi uniform, but he already knew that any 'lesson' given him by Germany would be bad enough and he felt no need to make it worse.

Germany smirked, a cold, sadistic gleam in his eyes. That smirk, that expression, promised a world of pain and misery for England.

"Or maybe," he mused, bringing one gloved hand to his chin in a mockery of appearing in thought, "you would learn your lesson better in another way. Because wouldn't it be a terrible pity if, say, any pieces were to find themselves suddenly and unexpectedly detached from America…?"

England froze. "Germany-"

"Ah," Germany cut in. "That's SS-Oberst-Gruppenführer Beilschmidt to you."

England's face contorted in disgust. "And Heil fucking Hitler too, I suppose," he spat.

A slap rocked his entire body. "Do not," Germany growled, "profane the name of the Führer like that."

* * *

What England had said had nothing on the song circulating through the American ranks. It was on the radio, even. And it wasn't just played for the troops in Europe, as it ended up on America's radio in the South Pacific.

_When der Führer says_

_We is the Master race_

_We Heil, Heil_

_Right in the Führer's face_

_Not to love the Führer is a great disgrace_

_So we Heil, Heil_

_Right in the Führer's face_

America looked up when he heard the song, his attention caught by the blatant (and humorous) mocking of the Nazis.

_Are we not the supermen_

_Aryan-pure supermen_

_Ja, we is the supermen_

_Superduper supermen_

_Ist es not ze land so good_

_Would you leave it if you could?_

_Ja, ist not the land is good_

_We would leave it if we could_

The last several weeks-months-years had been so tense that the comic song had America laughing ridiculously hard. He knew that there were people who believed the shit that the Nazis were spewing, and that there were also those who didn't have the luxury of being able to mock the Nazis, as it posed a huge danger to them.

_We bring the new world order_

_Heil Hitler's new world order_

_Everyone of foreign race_

_Will love the Führer's face_

_When we bring to the world disorder_

_When der Führer says_

_We is the Master race_

_We Heil, Heil_

_Right in the Führer's face_

_Not to love the Führer is a great disgrace_

_So we Heil, Heil_

_Right in the Führer's face_

America was trying so hard to stop laughing, but found that he couldn't. The song was too relevant, too true, and it broke through at least a bit of the anxiety he felt about England (though not all, of course. It wouldn't be completely gone until he actually held England in his arms again).

* * *

Shots rang out in the night, dragging England from his much-needed rest. He groaned, sitting up and heading over to the window, cursing when he hit his still-aching fingers on a chair.

He could see Nazi SS officers in their black uniforms running and shouting in German, interacting with the Gestapo and regular German troops, and the occasional flash of a gun from a building or somewhere on the streets.

The French Resistance, he realized. He hoped France was okay. He would have crossed his fingers, but they hurt too much.

* * *

France was managing accounts when his office door opened and a man walked in. Not looking up, France started to berate the man for not knocking, but was cut off by a soft voice.

"Please, France, it's me."

France stopped in the middle of a word and looked up. "Canada!" he exclaimed, standing up and coming around his desk to pull Canada into a hug. "Do you have any news? I can get the BBC, if I'm careful, but that is hardly the news I want."

Canada smiled knowingly. "Roosevelt sent Al to the South Pacific after he threatened to tear Paris apart to find England, who I assume you know is missing." He glanced at France in time to catch the shudder at the idea of Paris being torn apart. "Russia is in his own country fighting off a German invasion, but he's also building an empire. Al's faced Japan a time or two in the South Pacific. There are rumors of Prussia working at some German prison camp. Austria and Hungary have vanished."

"I knew about Angleterre being missing, but Autriche and Hongrie?" France asked, elegantly arching an eyebrow.

"There are theories…" Canada murmured, even softer than usual. "They're married, you know, under human names. And Austria's last name is Edelstein…" He trailed off, looking at his feet.

France understood. "It sounds Jewish," he whispered, and Canada nodded slightly.

"Japan's fighting dirty, too," he added. "He sent some men to kidnap Al."

An exclamation of surprise made its way past France's lips. Japan was an older personification, and so honor-bound. He would have thought the Asian nation above all that. He supposed he had been mistaken, or underestimated Japan's desperation. "But Amerique is fine, non?" he asked in concern, noticing the worry Canada felt for his brother.

"Yeah, Al's fine. The men were caught before they even made it to him."

France breathed a sigh of relief. As annoying and immature as America could be, everyone, both Axis and Allies, knew that the outcome of the war, and thus the fate of the world, rested squarely on his shoulders.

* * *

Germany was furious, and he could hardly take out his anger on Russia or his own goddamn generals, So he was taking it out on his own convenient nation punching bag. England, naturally, wasn't enjoying it, but he knew better than to complain or to even ask what had happened. This wasn't interrogation, it was anger. The best thing he could do was just take it, and to pray for it to end soon.

* * *

**The part that I might be most proud of in this entire fic might have been the one part in this chapter when England realizes that Germany is taking his mind, in addition to everything else. I love that scene, and gods, I'm so proud of it. It's depressing as hell, but I think I did it nicely. My writing group liked it, too.**

**Notes**

**May have...uh...**_**borrowed**_ **the finger-breaking thing from This Hurricane. I liked the idea, and it's painful as hell. I've never actually broken a finger, but I have jammed them and had them yanked around in weird ways, so I can only imagine having that done until they broke.**

**The song "Der Führer's** **Face" is a legitimate song (though I did cut a verse or two as not to bore you all **_**too**_ **much), released in either 1942 or 1943 by American artist Spike Jones (my information's a bit fuzzy). It was used in a 1943 American propaganda film by the Walt Disney Company also called Der Führer's Face, though it was originally called "Donald Duck in Nutzi Land." It's funny, and definitely worth watching if you get the chance (www . youtube **** .com** **/ watch?v=PL8FxDhsfhs). Take out the spaces; you know the drill. **

**Incidentally, the Walt Disney company had a huge hand in the propaganda on the American front-Disney's work was popular, so the American government took full advantage of the fact that many people knew both it and his characters, using them to create campaigns (my personal favorite poster is one of Mickey that says "Appreciate America. 'Come on gang-all out for Uncle Sam.' Mickey," and he's waving an American flag). Walt Disney himself was looked to by the government more than any other studio chief for raising American morale and providing propaganda. I have an entire book of political cartoons and propaganda from all countries involved in World War Two (my favorite is a Russian one of German soldiers turning into swastikas, and then into crosses as they all died in the invasion of Russia), and while there were not any by Walt Disney, there was one by Theodore Geisel, more commonly known as Dr. Seuss. The variety between countries is interesting. Most are against the enemy(s), but a lot of the British ones are about keeping up morale on the home front. I guess they need it, considering England's missing!**


	8. Chapter 8

"_You can't kill your way to security and you can't lead by scaring people." -Bruce Springsteen_

* * *

**March 1943 to June 1943**

* * *

France was sad to see Canada go-it was so nice to spend time with a nation on his own side-but knew that the other had to return to the war.

He had to admit, though, that it was a more than welcome change to see Canada during wartime. The normally quiet and invisible nation gained a strong presence while at war, that of a personification fighting to protect his country and his people. It was a sight to see.

* * *

Germany picked up a soldering iron and carefully made sure that it was on, no sign in his behavior of the intended use of the tool.

England sat tied, again, to a chair, shivering. Germany had taken away his jacket and shirt, leaving him freezing in just his thin undershirt. The island nation knew what was coming next, and he'd be lying if he even thought that he wasn't scared. He already had a shining line of burn scars, and he hardly wanted more. But, of course, he didn't have a choice.

Almost gently, Germany tipped England's head to one side, running a gloved finger along the sensitive skin just above his captive's collarbone, making England gasp softly. America had done the same thing before, although in an entirely different context.

"You like that, fag?" Germany sneered.

England snarled in response, and Germany seemed to take that as an affirmative.

Tenderly, almost as tenderly as America had once laid kisses on the same area, Germany pressed the heated tip of the soldering iron into the skin.

England tried desperately, for all he knew it was useless, to get away, writhing in pain. He hadn't screamed, not yet, although it was clear how hard he was trying not to. If he bit down any harder he would bite through his lip.

After a carefully calculated pause, Germany laid the tip down again, just a few centimeters from the first burn. This time England did bite through his lip, though he made no more sound than a slight whimper.

Then the burns came faster, closer, until his entire collarbone was on fire. And then England did scream.

* * *

He had been called back to Washington, D.C. Finally he was out of the goddamn South Pacific. As chilly as his capital was, a stark contrast from the previous warmth of the islands, America still found it a more than welcome change to be back on his own soil.

America headed for the White House, where he was stopped at the entrance.

"You can't go in," one of the guards said.

America tipped his head, confused. "What?"

The guard raised his eyebrows. "Not just anyone can walk into the White House. It's a security risk. Especially with there being a war on. Where have you been, under a rock?"

"In the South Pacific, actually," America said calmly. "And, more importantly, I have a personal invitation from President Roosevelt. Would one of you please go tell him that Alfred F. Jones is here to see him?"

The guards looked at each other in exasperation. "Listen, kid, we see soldiers every day who think some message issued by the President is their personal invitation to the White House. You're just like the rest of them. We can't let you in."

America crossed his arms. "Tell him Alfred F. Jones is here. Just do it."

Irritated, one of the guards went to check, although not likely with Roosevelt himself. When he returned, his eyes were wide.

Not seeing his companion's face, the guard who had remained looked at America pointedly. "See, kid? Off you go."

"Actually," the other cut in, "General Jones is to go straight to the Oval Office. He is meant to have unlimited access to all government facilities and personnel." He stared at America. "Just who _are_ you, exactly?"

America grinned. "That's classified," he replied, and strode into the White House.

"No rank insignia?" Roosevelt asked. "No wonder they wouldn't let you in."

America shrugged. "I don't actually have any rank insignia. Hard to properly advance someone who doesn't officially exist. And besides, there is no rank for 'personification.' Our rank is hard to determine. I usually leave that up to each president. It changes frequently-usually high enough to get me all the clearance I need, but not high enough that I'll be remembered. Sometimes I rank, but not always. I don't even always fight." He shook his head. "But that is irrelevant. What did you call me for?"

"Just an update-information too classified to share anywhere but in person. It involves what I believe may have been another personification, possibly France, from the way he talked. He introduced himself as Francis Bonnefoy, He mentioned you, too"

A grin split America's face. "What did France want?"

Roosevelt read from a piece of paper on which was scrawled a mess of words. "He says he talked to Matthew. Neither of them know where Arthur is, and Roderich and Elizabeta are also missing. Additionally, he asked two things of you. Firstly, if you were okay after Kiku's underhanded move, and then if you have any news on Gilbert. Care to tell me what all that means?"

"Mattie's my little brother-Canada, you would know him as. Arthur is England, and Roderich and Elizabeta are Austria and Hungary, respectively. They're married, and we think they got deported-Austria has a Jewish-sounding last name. Uh...Kiku, that's Japan, deliberately targeted me in an attack, which is fighting dirty, not to mention illegal under a treaty made by and for the personifications. Gilbert was the last one, right? He's Prussia, and we're pretty sure he's working at a camp. France himself is in Paris, running the Resistance there. We all tend to try and help keep each other up-to-date on all the personifications during wars."

"Don't you hold grudges?" Roosevelt asked. "I mean, you've all been at war with each other so often, it seems. And how do you get over things like, oh, Germany being a Nazi?"

"We're very strongly influenced by our people. If they think or feel a certain way we get swept along and think or feel the same way. That's why we'll get over Germany being a Nazi and stuff like that. Of course, if he hurt England, I'll hurt him, but he can't really help it. As for holding grudges, we live too long to really do that. There are always things that will upset us-for example, England can't be around me on the Fourth of July. But, mostly, we get over things. We have to. There are countries who will never get along-for example, England and France are always at each other's throats-but no, we don't hold grudges."

Roosevelt nodded. "I see. I'm honestly very curious about the other personifications. I know you, of course, but I am curious about the others."

"We _are_ a secret usually only revealed to our bosses. I can understand why, if you knew a little about one, you would want to know more," America said, amused. "I can try to answer some questions. Just...we already had the issue back before Pearl Harbor. Be careful with this information."

"Understood. Now, two of the three Axis powers were mentioned by-France?" Roosevelt said, leaning forward. "What about Italy?"

At this, America began to laugh outright. "Italy is completely dependent on Germany for everything, and just as useless on his own as he is dependent on the Nazi bast-sorry, Mr. President. On Germany. But you have to have noticed that, even without knowing the personifications. Just look at the interactions-I don't feel like they've been serious enough to call them engagements-between the Italian troops and everyone else. Italy himself is really quite nice, when his people and bosses aren't pushing him around, even though he's terrified of me." America sensed Roosevelt's question before it was even asked. "I'm big and strong with a lot of power, particularly militarily. He's very afraid of England, too. Apparently once Artie saw Italy up on a hill, waving a white flag with all his might. He has a brother, too-Romano, technically Southern Italy. A lot more foul-tempered and foul-mouthed, though no more competent. The thing Romano seems to be best at is making up nicknames, usually a food they like followed by bastard. Apologies in advance, but potato bastard, tomato bastard, and, for me, hamburger bastard. We're all used to it." America bit his lip. "Now, I have a question for you: what the hell do you know about these German camps? Austria and Hungary in most likely in one." And heaven only knew where England was.

"Not much," Roosevelt admitted. "Our spies can only send limited information. They're bad news. Thousands of people are dying."

America shook his head. "Austria and Hungary aren't going to die. As long as their countries end-oh, but Austria's been annexed. He could die. Hungary, too, I guess. We could _lose personifications_."

He bit his lip, looking panicked.

Roosevelt watched his nation have a silent panic attack. "Dismissed," he said quickly, and America all but ran out of the room.

* * *

He made it to his D.C. apartment before he broke down altogether. He had never been particularly close to Austria and Hungary, but the thought that they could lose personifications terrified him. Personifications were a constant. If any _died_-the whole world would be thrown off. Austria and Hungary-he couldn't imagine a life without hearing about Austria expressing his anger through Chopin and Hungary terrifying all the male nations with her frying pan (she had never attacked America, thank god. Mainly just the Bad Touch Trio, America realized).

And if Austria and Hungary could die, what was there to say that England wouldn't do the same?

That was when he truly panicked, realizing that there was a chance that England could die. His people had pushed the Germans back once already, but if Germany weakened England enough he could take over the country, and then he could kill England.

America balled his fists to try and stop his hands from shaking. England would be fine. America himself would protect the missing nation through sheer force of will.

* * *

England awoke, trying desperately to cling to the fading scraps of his dream. He had been with America, curled into the warmth and comfort of the other, and he had actually felt safe for the first time in far too long. It had been such a nice feeling. But first, he-and America, too-had to survive whatever Germany threw at them.

God, he hurt. Burns, he had decided, were worse than anything else. Although, his definition of "worse" changed day to day, honestly. It all depended on how he felt.

He could tell that his people were still living, still fighting. And that kept him fighting, too. If he couldn't be strong for himself, then he had to be strong for them. If he gave up the information Germany wanted, then he gave up the lives of hundreds of thousands of people-no, he realized. If he gave up the information Germany wanted, he gave up the lives of hundreds of _millions_ of people. In his hands rested the fate of every single person in all of the Allied countries, and, he supposed, the lives of everyone in the free world. If the Allies fell, the Germans would not stop at taking over England and America. They would take the entire world.

England rested his head in his hands. He was so tired. So tired of fighting, of defiance, of pain, of anguish, of worrying… of life. Nothing would happen to his people that wasn't happening already if he gave up, let Germany rip his life from him, if he just became one more victim of the German war machine. It was so appealing. Or he could go to sleep and never wake up again. It seemed so easy.

_To die, to sleep—no more; and by a sleep, to say we end the Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks that Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep, to sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause. There's the respect that makes Calamity of so long life: for who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time, the Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely, the pangs of despised Love, the Law's delay, the insolence of Office, and the Spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he himself might his Quietus make with a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered Country, from whose bourn no Traveller returns, Puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of. Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all, and thus the Native hue of Resolution is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought, and enterprises of great pitch and moment, with this regard their Currents turn awry, and lose the name of Action._

Perhaps he would live after all.

There were certain benefits to living, he supposed. After all, America could never hold him again-provided the stronger nation was even willing-if he died. He sighed, weighing possibilities against one another. The possibility of America hating him, the possibility of the opposite… that was what would be the deciding factor.

On one hand, America had a national pride in people who were strong and who were capable of doing things for themselves. On the other hand, America loved every chance to be a hero, and saving England would give him a chance to be just that.

It was an overwhelming decision, one he could hardly make. He supposed he would just have to wait. It would hardly be easy, but he was sure he could do it. He was an older nation-he had much experience in waiting.

* * *

America, who was worried sick about England, never even thought about hating England for any supposed cowardice. All he thought about was getting his England back, safe and sound and in his arms. A nation could dream, couldn't he? After all, with the exception of the part where England was missing, the Allies were doing well. The Germans had surrendered in Russia and they had kicked the Axis out of Tunisia. It was going well, and would be even better if they could just find England.

* * *

**Whoa, what's this? An update? Holy shit, I'm not dead! No, I'm kidding.**

**Really not that much to say with this one, other than I'm sorry. And it doesn't get any better from here. Cam's notes to me at the end of the four chapters she just read have been hilarious ("I hope you're happy having my heart ripped out of my chest," "Looking forward to that" [nine ends on a somewhat humerous note], "WELL FUCK," and "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO M****EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE (I mean, yeah, you can. BUT I DON'T HAVE TO BE HAPPY ABOUT IT.)"). Oops. Sorry, everyone.**

**The quote in italics earlier in the chapter is from William Shakespeare's **_**Hamlet.**_ **It is the continuation of the famous "to be or not to be" soliloquy, and seemed fitting, both that England would know it and its use in the chapter.**


	9. Chapter 9

"_I've seen most of what there is to be afraid of in this world, and to tell you the truth, the worst of them are the ones that make you afraid in the light. The things that make your eyes see plainly and can't forget are worse than huddled black figures left to the imagination. Imagination has a poor memory; it slinks away and goes blurry. Eyes remember much longer." -Kendare Blake_

* * *

**July 1943 to August 1943**

* * *

All his people, in Washington and across the country, were celebrating. Of course they were. He should have been, too-it was his birthday, after all-but found he couldn't. England wasn't there. He didn't know that upset him so much. After all, England always avoided him on his birthday. Year after year he insisted that it was nothing personal, but rather that it brought back too many painful memories.

England would never admit it, but America thought that, just maybe, the Fourth of July, his birthday, his _Independence Day_, made the other nation afraid that America would leave him again. America's reassurances made no difference.

"Jones, come celebrate!" some of the assembled troops called out, and so, with a sigh, America joined them.

* * *

Germany entered the room, seemingly innocent enough. England stared at him tensely, lower lip caught in his teeth, and hardly breathing.

A few moments passed in silence before England sighed. "What is it you want?" he asked in exasperation.

Germany smirked in triumph. He had wanted to get England to ask, to made him nervous. "Not much," he said casually. "I was simply wondering-I am off to see America. As today is his birthday, is there any message you wish to give him?"

It was America's birthday? "Just...just...tell him I love him," England managed to choke out, and Germany left.

As soon as he was gone, England dropped his head to his hands. It was America's birthday. He had avoided the younger nation on this day since 1776, but had also, in the past few years, taken to sending his love, at least.

The images ran through his head-America as a young child, him leaving and returning to find America far bigger than he remembered (he felt so bad about all he had missed), a grown America on his doorstep one day with a piece of paper that broke England's heart, the bitter separation that had followed, falling in tears at the feet of his former colony (and the start of the end of the British Empire; as the first colony to gain independence, America had proved it was possible), and then, finally, after far too long, finding comfort in the other's arms.

It was ironic, in a way, that _America _had held and comforted _him_. He was the older, more experienced nation, and he had watched America go through so much in his short history. But somehow America was stronger than England could remember being for a very long time. He was as strong, if not stronger, with just his own country than England had been at the height of his empire.

That strength would help America survive Germany, England hoped.

* * *

Germany had, of course, lied to England about where he was going He could hardly go see America-he didn't have America. Instead, he was off to Russia, where his troops were mounting a new offensive against the Soviet Union. He honestly wasn't sure what good it would do-they had failed miserably in their Russian invasion once before-but he was hardly going to argue with his boss. Germany would do anything to gain the glory he felt he deserved.

It was with that mindset that he stood up in front of his generals for the Russian offensive, hands clasped neatly at parade rest.

"We failed on British front. We failed on the Russian front once before. We dare not approach the Americans, a failure in and of itself. We are not going to fail again. We will take the Russian front this time!" he said, and the generals cheered.

* * *

Japan sat calmly, his serene exterior giving no sign of the turmoil underneath. He had been forced into a war with America that he didn't want, and now both he and his people were paying the terrible price.

When he had helped set the groundwork for the attack on Pearl Harbor a year and a half previously, he had intended to cripple America. But since then, while he may not have met the other nation himself often in combat, he had seen America's troops, fighting for all they believed in with fire and fury. And the few times he and the other had been face to face he had seen the truth in Admiral Yamamoto's words following the Pearl Harbor attack: "I fear all we have done is awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve."

* * *

Germany thought that his capture of England would be a terrible blow to the Allies, but Japan was convinced otherwise. He had seen the raw pain and emotion in America's eyes for himself, and knew that the nation would destroy anything and anyone in his path to victory, and, more importantly, in his path to saving England.

He hated Russia. He hated watching his men freeze or starve as they fought a terrible losing battle (although, to be fair, now that it was July there were less deaths from freezing, although no less from starvation). And so he was trying a different, desperate strategy in the middle of the night.

"Russia!" he roared, standing outside the gates of Kursk and armed only with a small pistol. "Come face me, nation to nation."

He didn't care if the Russian sentries thought him insane, didn't care what anyone thought. He just needed to speak to Russia.

Surprisingly, the gates opened and Russia stepped out, stopping mere feet from the blue-eyed blond.

"Germany," he said in a voice as cold as one of his winters. "What is it you want?"

"You and I both know that your people are dying," Germany replied. "You hold the power to end this now. Surrender to me. Cease fighting back. Simply surrender."

Russia narrowed his eyes. "Nyet."

"_Excuse me_?"

"I will never surrender to you. Might I remind you that _you_ have already surrendered to _me_?" Russia shook his head once, fierce and proud. "My people will never surrender to you."

"So be it," Germany snarled. "This is now on your head."

* * *

England's nightmares had changed tack. Now they were no longer of things done to him, but of the same being done to America. He remembered the pain on America's face when Pearl Harbor had been attacked, and his imagination magnified that a hundredfold in his dreams as America suffered under Germany's ministrations. It was his own particular brand of hell.

But he himself was untouched for the time being, and though he knew the trade-off that came with the fact that Germany was instead at America's throat, he couldn't help but be thankful for the reprieve, however temporary.

* * *

Italy. That was new territory for America. But Roosevelt had demanded an invasion of Italy-he was the weakest part of the Axis, and they needed a breakthrough into the "Pact of Steel." Considering the nations involved, invading Italy was by far their best choice.

America had begged Roosevelt to send him to Italy, and Roosevelt had acquiesced. And so, as a result, five days after his 167th birthday, America found himself looking at the shores of Sicily and preparing to land.

When the order finally came to head for the shore, America looked at the men around him. Taking a deep breath, he followed them into landing craft.

The landing itself was completely uneventful. If any Italian troops were in the area, they were too afraid to shoot. A smirk played across America's face. This would be easy.

* * *

A man stuck his head into Germany's tent, though not before knocking sharply to announce his presence. "Telephone for you, sir, back at command."

"Berlin? Germany asked.

The man shook his head. "Some hysterical Italian."

Italy.

Irritated, Germany made his way to command, where he was handed a telephone. "Hello?"

"Germany, _Germany_!" Italy cried.

"This had better not be about being unable to tie your damn shoelaces again," Germany warned.

"No-ve! The Allies have landed on Sicily-they're invading! I'm in Rome right now with my fratello. I'm scared, Germany." The last part was said in a whisper.

"Go to your part of the country," he instructed Italy. "Austria is part of the Third Reich-there will be soldiers there who can keep you safe, if needed."

"Why can't you come?" Italy wailed.

Germany sighed. "Because I am in Russia. There _is_ a war on, after all."

"Okay," Italy said in a whisper. "Grazie, Germany."

* * *

Germany had been gone for quite a while now. There were still SS officers who checked up on him every once in a while and fed him (although that was debatable at times), but other than that he was left alone with his own royally fucked up mind. He could do this, right? Of course he could!

...Of course he couldn't.

His mind played tricks on him, even in the light. Every creaking floorboard was creaking under Germany's step. Any words spoken in German were in Germany's voice. Everywhere and in everything he heard and saw Germany. He was going fucking crazy. He didn't know how much longer he could stand the monotony, god damn it all. The unchanging nature of his captivity would kill him sooner or later, just as surely as a German bullet.

* * *

They had combed every inch of the island, and they were finally finished. The men were exhausted-it had taken them a month-and were more than grateful for the day of rest they now had on the completely conquered island.

America relaxed, thankful that the conquest was over. It had been nice to have a distraction from worrying about England, but he was physically and mentally exhausted. He was fighting not just his own battles but also those of each and every one of his troops, the screams of the dying echoing in his head. He had heard and felt so many of his people die in wars over his lifetime, but he was convinced that he would never grow accustomed to it. He just couldn't comprehend how so many of the older nations just seemed to take the deaths of their people in stride.

A man, hardly more than a boy, in an American uniform collapsed next to America. The nation had learned the boy's name, but he could not for the life of him remember what it was.

"Jones, isn't it?" the boy asked, and America nodded.

"What do you think of Italy?" the boy continued.

This time America shrugged. "I think it's a means to an end, honestly," he replied. "We need to win, and, to beat the Axis, Italy is the best place to start." He looked around. "I think we could have a decent chance of winning this war with how things have been going so far."

All he knew was highly classified-he couldn't share it. He didn't even know all the details himself. But there were whispers of a way to stop Japan once and for all, so America wasn't hugely concerned on that front. Instead, he turned his attention to the downfall of Nazi Germany. This war had to end-people had to stop dying. It was a certain kind of hell for at least one personification.

The boy's groan brought America back to reality. "I don't want to talk about the war," he complained. "I've had enough of war. I'm really just here to keep my kid sister safe. She's twelve and adorable as anything. I would hate for any of this shit to get to her. You have any siblings, Jones?"

The face of his brother, so like his own, flashed into America's mind. "A brother. Matthew. He's off fighting with the Canadians."

"But you're with the Americans."

America sighed. "It's a long story."

"Well, we have all day off," the boy said cheerfully.

"We're half brothers," America said. In truth, no one understood it, not even France and England, who had raised the boys. "Alfred F. Jones and Matthew Williams. I grew up American, he grew up Canadian. He's my best friend, beside Arthur."

He bit his lip. "Arthur works for the SOE in Britain. Went to France, got captured by the Germans. This was back in spring 1942. No one's heard from him since."

"I'm so sorry, man," the boy started, but was cut off by another American.

"There's some Italian on the line for you, sir," he told America. "He sounded fucking pissed."

America nodded. "I'll be right there."

* * *

**The Germans were damned determined to take the Russian front...clearly they fell into the trap of "those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it," because invading Russia never works. Napoleon fell into that trap as well.**

**The "I fear all we have done is awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve" is a real quote, and, as far as I can tell, really accurate with how the war played out with the US involved (especially for Japan).**

**The actual invasion of Sicily took a lot longer (lasted a month), and the Americans were originally opposed, but I didn't feel like writing all of it. I'm a bit lazy sometimes.**

**The "whispers of a way to stop Japan once and for all" is referring to the Manhattan Project-the developing of the atomic bomb at Los Alamos.**


	10. Chapter 10

"_Monsters are real. Ghosts are real, too. They live inside us and sometimes, they win." -Stephen King_

* * *

**September 1943 to October 1943**

* * *

Romano had indeed been "fucking pissed." He had sworn at America for several minutes, then ended the conversation with "Oh, by the way, my boss wants an armistice."

America blinked, amused at the abrupt change in Romano's tone. "I'll meet with you as soon as possible," he promised.

As it happened, "as soon as possible" happened to be a few weeks later, when America finally made it to Rome. He had radioed ahead that he was nearly there, and so Romano met him as he entered the city, arms crossed and his characteristic scowl on his face.

"You finally made it, hamburger bastard," he said crossly, then stepped forward to give America a brief hug. "Don't think that means I'm fucking happy to see you," he warned,

"Of course not," America replied, amused. He knew Romano was lying to save face. "Shall we?"

Romano nodded and led America through the city until Romano finally stopped. "In here."

He led America into a battered office, his own. "I was under the impression that I was signing this fucking armistice with the Allies, not just the United States. Where the fuck is the damn tea bastard?"

"About that…" America began.

* * *

His day began with a painful electric shock. His eyes shot open to find Germany glaring at him.

"Up," Germany ordered, and England groaned. "_Up_," Germany repeated.

Muttering softly under his breath, England clambered to his feet. Germany circled him, looking for all the world like a hungry shark. He even had the teeth-baring snarl-smirk, which made him look even more shark-like. England gulped. That particular look boded no good.

Germany lashed out, lightning fast, fist slamming into the concave of England's stomach. There was no longer any sort of padding there anymore-he had lost too much weight-and so the blow hurt more than it should have.

England doubled over, gasping for air. But before he managed to recover entirely a volley of blows landed continuously, never giving him time to quite catch his breath.

When it finally stopped he collapsed on the floor. "What was that for?" he panted out, glaring at Germany.

"You are my prisoner. I need no other reason. Nor do I need to explain myself to you," was the reply.

* * *

It was almost time. They had been planning this day for months, and they were finally all but ready. The Nazi bastards would never know what hit them.

* * *

At first England thought that the sound of exploding bombs was all in his head, perhaps from bombing in his own country. But then he realized that the explosions made the glass in his windows rattle. That meant it was nearby.

He knew that he couldn't be killed by bombs, but they still frightened him. For all he couldn't die, he was no stranger to pain.

A brief moment of concern for France shot through England's mind. He remembered how it felt to be bombed himself, like explosions under his skin, an itch he couldn't scratch. It was awful, and now the damn frog was stuck with it.

* * *

France looked at the men assembled before him, trying not to show the discomfort the bombing was causing him.

"We go in two nights," he reminded them. "Are all the pieces in place?"

There were various calls of affirmation, and France nodded. "You all know the plan. Black clothes, hide your faces. We do not want them knowing who we are and hunting us down. We get in, wreak as much havoc as we can, free prisoners if at all possible, and get the hell out," He brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen out of his ponytail. "Any questions?"

When no one had any, France dismissed the men, reminding them to be back in two nights, then returned to his apartment, lying on his couch and nursing a glass of wine to help take his mind off the bombings, as well as off the impending attack.

He had to admit to having his qualms about the whole operation. He still believed in the old style of warfare, where two opposing armies faced each other on the field of battle. These sneak attacks still bothered him, for all he knew they were entirely necessary. And he knew he would lose men-it was inevitable. They couldn't face the Nazis head-on and not lose people. There was no way it was possible.

France shook his head to clear it. He had to stop obsessing and simply live.

* * *

America laid sprawled on the ground, hands behind his head to act as a cushion, staring up at the sky.

"You fucking crazy, hamburger bastard?" came a voice behind him, and America laughed. He hadn't heard Romano approach, but he actually more or less trusted the Italian. After all, he _had_ signed an unconditional surrender for all of Italy, even though his brother was still fighting on the side of the Axis.

"Nah," America replied. "I'm stargazing. It's nice. Relaxing. And the stars are a bit like us, I suppose."

"What do you mean?" Romano asked, sounding uncharacteristically curious.

"They watch over the course of human events, alone and unchanging. It doesn't matter to the stars what humans do to each other-it doesn't affect them-and if those stars die, they die spectacularly," America said softly.

Romano, surprisingly, didn't go off and start ranting to America, didn't call him a bastard, didn't say anything. Instead, he joined America in watching the stars.

"I've been thinking," he said quietly after a few minutes.

America gave a soft hum to show he was listening.

"I'm going to declare war on the fucking potato bastard. My idiot brother can cry and bitch all he wants, but Italy is going to war."

* * *

"Veneziano! Shut the fuck up!"

"Romano, I'm not going to war with Germany. He's my friend. He saved me!"

"The potato bastard is destroying Europe. If we don't stop him, he'll destroy the entire fucking world."

"I don't care! I'm not betraying him."

"...fuck you."

* * *

He should have known it was coming. After all, the exact same thing had happened in the Great War.

Although, Germany mused, the declaration bore only the signature of Italy Romano. The signature of Italy Veneziano was notably absent. Interesting. To properly declare war, the Italian government needed the signatures of both brothers. The country was divided.

Very interesting indeed.

* * *

The day had finally arrived, and France felt truly alive, the way he always had on the battlefield.

He was dressed in black, the color making him look taller and slimmer than ever. He had pulled his hair into his now characteristic low ponytail and tucked it into a hood. Then he placed a black mask over his face.

The group met in silence in front of the SS headquarters, the building they were attacking. France looked out over his men and grinned crookedly, not that anyone could see it. "Allons-y!" he called out.

All hell broke loose.

* * *

Why was there so much noise? England groaned and buried his head under his arms. He wasn't okay with this. Not at all. He wanted it to stop-he wanted to sleep.

* * *

As soon as Germany realized what was going on he started barking orders. The goddamn French Resistance was attacking.

England. He needed to get England away from the French. The captive nation could not be taken away-he couldn't let an enemy nation back into the world. He would have to be crazy to do that. But he was sure that the French meant to free prisoners, and he really could not afford to lose England.

And so he left the other troops to defend against the French and hurried towards the room that England was kept in, shoving Frenchmen out of the way.

He reached the room in which England was being held without much trouble. He covered the other's face with a piece of cloth-no good in someone seeing him and reporting it to a member of the Allies.

Getting back through the halls was much harder now that he was leading a prisoner. The French fought against him, trying desperately to save England from Germany's grasp. One man fought particularly hard. not giving up even as the hopelessness of his position became clear. Strands of long blond hair swung out from under his hood as as he struggled, and something about them pulled at Germany's mind, but he shook it off in order to focus on the task at hand.

* * *

A large part of their purpose had been to free prisoners, so when France saw Germany leading a hooded prisoner he knew he had to free the poor man,

He fought Germany, never an easy task, but this time he had to be careful of the prisoner who stood completely still, blinded by the hood he wore, as well as with hands tied behind his back. He was thin, clearly half-starved. France's heart went out to the poor man, so oh, he fought. His ponytail loosened, sending pieces of hair into his eyes and mouth, causing a potential distraction. He ignored them as best as he could, needing to focus on saving the man.

Then Germany got in a good blow and France went spinning into the wall, into the prisoner. "Apologies," he breathed out and started to move away, but, before he could, the prisoner breathed "_Courier_" in husky French. _Run_.

France drew in a sharp breath. He was trying to save this prisoner, but it seemed as if the man was also trying to save his potential rescuer. It was so odd, but he decided not to question it as he turned to find a pistol pointed at his forehead.

He took a single steadying breath, looked Germany straight in the eyes, and announced, "Vive la Resistance!" Then he ducked away from the pistol and sprinted into the mess of men, both German and French, trying desperately to both escape Germany and avoid any shots fired.

France called out to men as he passed them, telling them to get themselves out while they still had the chance, while they still lived.

He himself made it out okay, thankfully, heart pounding. He watched his men stream out of the building, counting as best as he could as they passed. They had taken losses, naturally, but they weren't nearly as bad as he had feared they would be.

Once the last man was out, he headed for his home, frequently checking to make sure he wasn't being followed. He finally reached the relative safety of his own apartment and leaned against the door gratefully. For the time being, he was safe.

* * *

Germany crossed his arms and surveyed the damage done. Nicks and chips in the paint, dents in the walls, prisoners missing, and several dead or dying Frenchmen were the aftermath of the raid, and more work would be put on his men to take care of it. He sighed in irritation. God damn the French.

He kept thinking back to the one Frenchman who had fought harder than the rest. Those strands of blond hair that had escaped the hood stuck in his mind as having something familiar about them, the same thing that was familiar in the way the man's blue eyes had gleamed as he shouted in French. He was so familiar, and Germany needed to figure it out.

It hit him a few hours later, as the sun started to come up: France. The bastard had been France himself, it had to have been. He _knew _that the other nation had surrendered too easily (even for being French)-he had been fighting in the Resistance. That would have to end. Germany stood for a moment in thought, then decided. He would go to bring France in himself.

The drive from the SS headquarters to France's home in Paris was only a few minutes. Germany made sure that his uniform was on straight and his hat pulled low over his eyes before he headed to the door and knocked.

France opened the door within moments, dressed in his usual impeccable fashion, a glass of wine held gently in his hand. "_Bonjour, Allemagne_," he said calmly. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise?"

"_Frankreich_," Germany growled in response, roughly pulling France out of his doorway. "Don't play dumb." He shoved him into the car.

* * *

There was a scuffle coming into the building, and England sat up. What was it this time?

He heard barked orders in German, though he didn't bother attempting to translate them. He should have, though, as he jumped when his door slammed open and two black-uniformed SS officers grabbed him and dragged him out of the cell.

They stopped in the entryway where Germany stood, face stony, a prisoner at his feet. The man's long blond hair covered his face as he knelt on the cold stone floor.

The man groaned and lifted his head, shaking his hair out of his face. England stared, transfixed.

Blue eyes met green.

"Angleterre?"

"_France_?"

* * *

**I'm not entirely sure if the French Resistance held raids like that. It seems like they were more involved in sabotage and the like, but this makes for a good plot point.**

**The whole thing with Italy was, historically, a mess. Different parts of the country were siding with different alliances and everything, so I tried to capture that at least a bit.**

**I know I mentioned earlier that personifications cannot directly target other personifications. This is less of that and more of a Nazi officer capturing a known member of the French Resistance, they just happen to both be personifications. Germany is not deliberately targeting France because he's _France_, but because he was working for the Resistance.**


	11. Chapter 11

"_Darkness always had its part to play. Without it, how would we know when we walked in the light? It's only when its ambition becomes too grandiose that it must be opposed, disciplined, sometimes-if necessary-brought down for a time. Then it will rise again, as it must." -Clive Barker_

* * *

**November 1943 to January 1944**

* * *

France. France had been captured. He couldn't believe it. No. This wasn't…Germany couldn't hold two personifications, never minds that he had already conquered. God. The Nazi bastard held France, Poland, Austria, England himself...there were probably many more, but England's mind was hardly working at this point. France.

England was dozing when the screams started, pulling him roughly back into the waking world. He was relatively used to this. Every once in a while the Germans would pull someone in, whether for suspected connections to the French Resistance or for the simple crime of happening to have looked at a German the wrong way, and the screams would start anew. He thought nothing of it.

The the events of the previous night, All Hallows Eve, came rushing back to him. The screams weren't coming from just any member of the French Resistance…

"France!" he screamed. "Let the frog go, Nazi bastard!"

He screamed himself hoarse, trying desperately to have France freed, for all it was in vain. He knew Germany would never let France go, especially not for something as trivial as England begging.

* * *

France was trying so hard not to give information to Germany, but it was difficult. He found himself extremely impressed with England for having appeared as sane as he did.

"Did...did you put Angleterre through this?" he gasped out, fearing the answer.

"It's not your place to ask questions," Germany snapped, and France narrowed his eyes. That sounded ominous.

* * *

The door to England's cell was opened and a battered body shoved in. It took England a moment, but he quickly realized it was France.

Hurrying over, he knelt beside the other nation, looking closely at the damage done. Much to his relief, it was relatively slight.

"Angleterre?" France croaked, sitting up with England's help.

"I'm right here," England said, surprisingly gently for talking to France.

"Did he do this to you, too?" France's eyes were filled with concern.

England had to tell France the truth. "What he did to you is nothing compared to what he's done to me."

The look on France's face nearly broke England's heart. "_Non_," he whispered. "He couldn't have. What he did was so terrible and to have it so many times worse... Mon Dieu, Angleterre."

"I don't want anyone to know," England whispered. "Please, France..._s'il vous plait, Francis_. I don't care if you say what he did to you, but I don't want anyone to know what happened to me."

France nodded silently, eyes fixed on England. He seemed to understand where the other was coming from, at least.

* * *

Circumstances could push even the bitterest of enemies together-the enemy of my enemy is my friend-and so England found France reaching out to him when the island nation was paralyzed by nightmares, and he found himself accepting the comfort of his adversary's arms. It called to mind a time, seemingly so long ago, when America had done much the same thing. The nightmares turned to dreams of the other nation, so strong, so warm, so comforting-and England woke with tears on his face.

France took one look at those tears and gathered England close and held him while he sobbed out all the fear, all the anger, all the overwhelming emotion, America's name gasped out between broken sobs.

Once England finally collected himself, France held him at arm's length and looked at him seriously. "Amerique is fine," he promised.

England looked at him with wild eyes, fear and pain evident in his glare. "But Germany has him! How can you even say that?"

France furrowed his brow. "No, last I heard, America was leading the Allied invasion of Italy. Did you hear it from Germany himself that he holds America."

As that was more or less the case, England nodded, gasping at tenuous threads of hope.

France looked furious. "He lied. England-_Arthur_, listen to me. Germany lied. America is free; he's fine. Safe. I promise you this, swear it on my life."

England's eyes were huge and red-rimmed, and his breath came in hysterical gasps. "_Alfred_," he managed before he fell back into tears, this time of relief. He didn't care how it looked or what France thought. America was okay, and that was all that mattered in that moment.

Placing a hand over his mouth to muffle the sobs, England looked at France. "Do you know what he has been doing? Tell me, if you do, please."

France inclined his head. "According to Canada, America went a little crazy after finding out you were missing. He threatened to rip Paris apart, so Roosevelt sent him to the South Pacific, for which I am at least grateful. The Nazis are already defiling my beautiful city, so I don't need America destroying it, too. I heard he faced Japan over the Pacific theater. But Japan fought dirty, purposefully sent men to target America. _Japon a brise le code d'honneur_," he added bitterly.

England laughed once, harshly. "And Germany didn't? He holds you and I."

France shrugged, then continued. "America was fine, thankfully. Then he was recalled to Washington-I contacted him while he was there-and is now in Italy."

"Thank God that he is okay," England breathed.

* * *

Germany had been about to enter the room when he heard America's name. So he stopped and listened in anger as France called his bluff regarding America. At least, he thought, that what he was bringing to them now was no bluff.

He slammed open the door and the captive nations jumped, then turned to stare at him.

"Get up," Germany ordered the two of them. "You have an event to attend."

* * *

They were tied up, one each to two separate lower-ranking SS officer, and led into a courtyard. England tried to raise his hands to shield his eyes-he had not been outside since his capture-but they were bound and he failed. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden daylight. Once he could see again he found that his bindings had been transferred from being attached to a German to being attached to a railing, that he was next to France, and that there was a gallows in the center of the courtyard. He knew immediately what was going to happen.

France just stared blankly at the gallows, not reacting to them like the other would have thought. England guessed that he was trying to deny the obvious. But when they led out the prisoner, a French teen, not even a full adult, England could tell that France stopped being able to deny reality any longer. "Non!" he screamed, fighting against his bindings. England had only ever seen the other this way once before-when he had been forced to watched the execution of Joan of Arc.

Angry French mixed with expletives spilled out of France's mouth without his attention as his eyes fixed on Germany, who wore a smirk. But it made no difference.

The boy was dragged up on the gallows, the noose slipped around his neck, and blood started down France's hands from where the rough rope tore at his skin as he fought.

England glanced over at France. "Vive la Resistance," he murmured. That wasn't all he wanted to say, or do-he wanted to rescue the boy, to go out there and tear Germany to shreds, to stop this fucking war-but it was all he _could_ do.

France nodded in reply, though he didn't look at England. "Vive la Resistance," he whispered back. Then he shouted it.

The words rang through the courtyard as the execution really began. But-and perhaps on purpose; England wouldn't have been surprised at all if it was purposeful-they had not gotten a good executioner. Instead of dying quickly and easily, his neck broken from the fall, the boy danced on the end of the rope.

France looked sick. Blood covered his hands, both literally and figuratively-the boy's death was on him, or at least he felt it was-and tears streamed down his face as he watched the boy slowly suffocate.

It seemed to take ages, hours of watching the poor thing die. Finally, however, it was done, and England and France were led back to the room.

Ignoring his raw wrists and bloodsoaked hands, France curled on the bed, covering his face. England knew better than to disturb him. France's hair and face were getting covered in blood, though the cuts were finally stopping bleeding, but France clearly didn't care.

England heard sobs, but knew how dangerous it could be to try and comfort France. He remembered the similar circumstances following Joan of Arc's death, and he also remembered France trying to kill him-actually kill him, not just their usual bickering-when he had went to attempt to console the grieving nation. Though, to be fair, that had all been England's fault, and this was not.

However, it was still the best idea to leave France to his mourning, so England tried to be as quiet as possible and not disturb him.

Germany, however, did nothing of the sort, as the door flew open and the nation himself stalked into the room. England pressed himself against the wall to avoid him, but Germany only had eyes for France.

"This is what happens to those who defy me," he said firmly and calmly. "The French Resistance should know better than to keep tempting fate and doing just that." When France didn't respond, Germany raised his voice. "The boy deserved what he got."

France snapped. "Fuck you!" he screamed, exploding into a flurry of motion and lunging at Germany. "You _bastard_! He didn't deserve any of that shit. If you had to kill him, you should have done it cleanly, not that sickening display of your fucking sadism. Do you get off on shit like that? And-we will _never_ stop. Vive la Resistance!" He fought desperately at Germany, who pulled out his pistol.

England gasped, sure that Germany was going to shoot France. Instead, he used the butt of the gun as a club, striking France over the head. The man collapsed, and Germany left, not even bothering to see if France was okay.

Once Germany was gone, England rushed over to France, concerned. He wasn't dead, of course, but he also wasn't conscious. Slowly and carefully, England moved him to the bed.

About fifteen minutes later, France groaned and groggily opened his eyes. "How much did I drink?" he wondered hoarsely. "My head is killing me."

England waited patiently for France to remember what had happened. He could tell by a harsh intake of air when the other did, but neither said anything.

* * *

France nursed the lump and dark bruise on his head for several days, complaining often of dizziness. England found himself worrying over the mental state of his longtime enemy and occasional friend.

Finally, after a long day of Germany having neglected to feed them, and yelling at them, England glanced over at France. "We're going to get out of here," he whispered.

"How? France whispered back, curious and hopeful.

England shrugged. "I haven't gotten that far yet. But we'll figure it out. We can't stay here anymore. It's going to fucking kill us, as far as it can, and sooner rather than later. For me, I've just been here far too long, and you're also occupied. How much longer _can_ we stay here?"

France nodded, biting his lip as he thought. "The window," he suggested. "If we can get the bars off the window, that could work. Just a thought."

England nodded. "We can do it."

* * *

It was Thanksgiving. Romano had made a Thanksgiving meal, of sorts, for America and his higher ranking officers, and America appreciated it greatly. The meal was not a typical Thanksgiving dinner-it was rather Italian-but America was grateful for both the thought and the effort.

Romano, of course, denied having done it of his own free will.

"My boss said I had to do something for your fucking Thanksgiving, hamburger bastard," he grumbled, his refusal to look America in the eyes giving away his true feelings on the situation.

America nodded. "Thank you anyway."

What he didn't say was that while the food was incredible, he found himself having little to be truly thankful for. He had plenty to be thankful for as _America_, but as _Alfred_ he had so little. England was still missing, and that was the root of the entire matter. He just wanted the man he loved back.

He sent up a quick prayer to a god he wasn't sure existed for England's safety. He was desperate.

* * *

Time stretched and pulled like the taffy America was so fond of, and England and France prepared. They worked on figuring out how to get the bars away from the window, and once they worked that out they worked on enacting the plan. They also had to hide their work from Germany and any other Germans, the hardest part.

One particularly cold day they were woken by the chatter of excited voices in the square below. France went to see what was happening, and his face was glowing when he turned away from the window.

"It's Christmas!" he announced happily.

England sighed. "My second Christmas in this hellhole."

"But your last," France reminded him, and England managed a smile.

* * *

Christmas was followed by the arrival of the new year, and they kept working. Finally, after far too much time, they were ready. It was time to escape Germany's clutches.

"Where should we go?" France asked quietly.

England tipped his head, considering. "America, I think. It's such a big country that we should be able to disappear there, and it's far away from the war. With the exception of the Pearl Harbor attacks, there haven't been any battles or bombings there. Even though Alfred is in Italy, his country is our best choice."

"And enough people from Europe have fled there already that even our accents should be relatively inconspicuous," France mused in reply. "America it is."

* * *

They had chosen a date for their escape, but the day before the planned one Germany took England in for 'interrogation,' leaving him able to do no more that lay on the bed, unconscious most of the time. France noted the dark ring of bruises around England's neck, some of which looked suspiciously like fingerprints, made sure the Englishman continued breathing, and pushed back the day they had chosen. It would be impossible for England to escape in his current state. That was obvious.

Once England was finally better, he griped at France for pushing the date back.

"It would have been impossible for you to escape," France argued.

"But each day longer we wait increases the chances of our scheme being found out."

France threw up his hands. "Tomorrow, then."

England nodded, appeased. "Tomorrow."

* * *

They waited until the dead of night to run. It was far less risky. There would be fewer German sentries, fewer spies to report them, and far fewer civilians that could become casualties of the plotting of two nations.

England watched at the door as France prepared for real, pulling the bars away from the window and carefully opening it, making sure no Germans were below them.

"France," England hissed urgently. "_Germany_!"

France's eyes widened as he tried desperately to put the window and its bars back in order. "It's not working," he reported, voice strained.

England shook his head. "Just go. There's only time for one of us to get out, and you're closer. I'll hold Germany off." He braced himself against the door. "Go!"

"I'm not going without you," France snapped back.

England turned his head to glare. "Yes, you are. Get the fuck out of here, _now_."

France sighed. "Be careful, Angleterre," he said as he perched on the window ledge.

"You too," England replied, sounding strained. "Vive la Resistance, oui?"

France nodded with a crooked grin, then was gone.

England stepped away from the door and Germany burst through it, looking livid. "France?" he demanded, voice barely controlled.

England tried not to look as afraid as he felt as he shrugged casually. The window was wide open behind him, letting cold air flow into the room and making the answer to Germany's question clear. But England wouldn't give Germany the satisfaction of a verbal answer.

"You helped him." It wasn't a question, but Germany seemed to be awaiting an answer.

England drew himself proudly up to his full height, mimicking the aggression of Germany's stance. He had no shame in what he had done, and therefore had no reason to act as such. "Of course I did."

"_Nacht und nebel_."

England was confused. Night and fog? What the hell was Germany talking about? Then he realized that Germany was not addressing him, but rather the other Germans in the hall outside the room.

"I want it done immediately," Germany said coldly, and the men nodded.

England had a sinking feeling that he was royally fucked.

* * *

**Notes**

**There aren't really any historical notes for this one, aside from **_**Nacht und Nebel**_**. Basically, that was a way of making prisoners disappear-into the "night and fog," to use the translation. Yet another thing I got from **_**Verity**_**.**

**That scene with the hanging and all was one of my favorites to write in this whole fic...oops.**

**As for anything else, I need to stop starting new things. I've got this, Shindig, I'm going to rewrite Questa a aa Vita, and I just started an Avengers/Hetalia crossover, inspired by the fact that I finally watched Cap 1 (the Stucky feels are real). Almost all of this is written (though not typed; I've been a little busy preparing to graduate high school), though, so all those others shouldn't get in the way of it. That being said, I have not yet typed all of chapter 12, so I can't promise an update next week.**


	12. Chapter 12

"_This place is the thing behind the madness. There is nothing good here. Off the map. [...] This place exists in the wake of a scream." -Kendare Blake_

* * *

**February 1944 to May 1944**

* * *

Royally fucked, indeed. Everything was happening so quickly, and, if he was honest, England had no idea just what was happening. He had helped France escape, Germany had found out, and now he was "nacht und nebel." He was still a little unsure as to what that meant, exactly, although it seemed to involve a lot of secrecy in getting him to a train station.

There were hundreds of people there, many of them marked with the yellow star of the Jews. Seeing them, England started to realize what was happening. He was going to be deported to God knew where, and he was helpless to do anything about it. He had signed his own death warrant in helping France escape.

But he was a nation-could Germany even do this? Not that there was anything that England could do. Even trying to escape was too risky-it could put the civilians around him at more risk than they were already in.

So he was crammed along with everyone else into boxcars, far more people in each than the cars could hold. England found himself crushed between a weeping woman clutching two children and a teenage boy. All four wore the yellow Star of David.

The boy looked at England curiously. "You don't wear a star," he said questioningly.

England nodded slightly, determined to be civil even as his nerves frayed. "I'm not Jewish-I'm a political prisoner. I'm English, if you can't tell. I was a soldier in the British Army for a while, and then I was sent here as a spy-SOE, you know-and then was captured by the Germans. A friend of mine was caught as a member of the French Resistance, and I helped him escape. Now I'm here." He shrugged, hoping he didn't look as afraid as he felt-he didn't need to scare the boy any more than he already was.

The boy's eyes were huge. "You fought the Germans?" he asked, sounding impressed.

England nodded. "I had to. I couldn't just let hi-them take over all of Europe. I was sort of high on the political ladder back in England, so I had a decent amount of power to try and stop him. Managed to get myself captured something like two years ago."

The train lurched forward with a sickening shriek, echoed by the people in the cars. A young child cried out that she needed a bathroom, and England found himself wishing, more than ever before, that he could return to his own country. Maybe then he could actually regain his strength and sanity.

* * *

There was a huge risk in France remaining in Paris, but he couldn't leave, not yet. He had to make sure that England was okay. Dressed in the uniform he had stolen from a French collaborator, he approached the guards outside the building he and England had been kept in.

"I'm to ask after the Englishman who has been kept here,: he said, bringing the natural pitch of his voice down. "Short, messy blond hair, bright green eyes? He was an SOE agent, captured back in May 1942. Arthur Kirkland."

"Isn't he the one that Beilschmidt declared Nacht und Nebel?" one guard asked the other, and France's heart skipped a beat. That sounded horribly ominous.

The other nodded and turned to France. "He's been deported."

"Where to?" Franced asked breathily, and the guards shrugged.

"_Danke_," France muttered, and hurried off.

He had to decide now whether or not to send word to America. He was sure that the other nation would want to know that English had vanished again, but at the same time he couldn't afford to distract the man, the country, on whose shoulders rested the fate of the world. He was leaning towards not telling America, but if America found out that France had withheld the information… France shuddered to think of it.

But _deported_. What did that even mean? He knew the literal meaning, of course, but it was so vague. England could have been sent anywhere-to one of those camps of rumor?

Worrying, France decided, would do neither him nor England any good. They would just have to wait out the rest of this goddamned war.

* * *

They had been crammed into the boxcar for days. England felt confident that at least one person had died in there. Luckily, the chill in the air kept the stench from becoming overpowering. On top of that there was the cloying odor that came from having so many people crammed so close together for so long with no bathrooms.

The train stopped several times, but they had never once been let out, despite their shouts, so when the train ground to a halt yet again they knew better than to get their hopes up.

This time, however, the doors slid open and the Nazi guards leered at them. "Like animals," one said, "standing in their own filth."

They forced everyone out of the boxcar, unceremoniously dragging out the dead. People reached out for their now-dead loved ones, but the Germans pushed them onwards before they could do anything. Terrible cries of mourning filled the air.

They were pushed through gates, and, as he stumbled along, England caught site of the words emblazoned on them: _Jedem das Seine_.

"'To each his own?'" he murmured softly, wondering after the meaning and purpose of those words.

They were separated, men to the left and women to the right, children torn from the arms of their mothers in the Nazis' deadly efficiency.

The terrified prisoners were passed along like pieces on an assembly line. Strip, shower, receive your number tattoo, have your head shaved, receive new clothes, next. The inhumanity of it all almost made England cry.

He was given an identifying badge he had to wear, a red triangle that he assumed symbolized a political prisoner.

They were shoved out into a courtyard where they rejoined the women. Everyone looked so different with their heads shaved, like overgrown infants.

A few uniformed Germans paced in front of them. Most of them were blond, although there one had pure white hair. He stood completely still, shocking red eyes seemingly searching among the prisoners.

England sucked in a harsh breath. Prussia.

Prussia saw him then, too, and approached, the other prisoners around England backing away as quickly as they could. The other, stronger nation seized England, their faces close together. "My brother," Prussia hissed in English, a language England had neither heard nor used in months, "sent me here to keep an eye on you. Watch your step." He released England and stepped back, crossing his arms and surveying the prisoners.

"Welcome to Buchenwald," the Prussian said in French, voice harsh. "I am SS-sturmbannführer Beilschmidt, and while I am not officially in charge here, you will answer to me. I am the ranking officer. Now, most of you are Jewish scum, with a few exceptions. There will be no practicing of any religion. At all. Do I make myself clear?"

Murmurs of assent rose from the assembled prisoners as they processed Prussia's orders.

"There will be roll call at dawn every morning. You will be there when called. If you are unable to get to roll call, you will be _taken care of_. Any attempts at escape will result not only in your own death, but also in that of your fellow prisoners."

People cowered away from Prussia in fear in all-too-human fear. England, on the other hand, just stared at the other, unmoving, wondering what had happened to the carefree nation with the obnoxious laugh that had terrorized the other personifications as a member of the Bad Touch Trio alongside France and Spain.

* * *

France had made up his mind.

"This is Jones."

"America, I need to talk to you. How soon can you be in Paris?"

* * *

America made it within a few hours. "I commandeered a plane," he explained. "Well, stole, I guess. I miss flying-they don't let me anymore. And I was in Rome. Not a bad flight." He looked seriously at France. "What was it you wanted me for?"

"We need to talk," France replied.

"About?"

"England."

America went pale, although, to his credit, his voice sounded steady and calm. "What's happened to Arthur?"

France shook his head. "That's the problem. I don't know."

America furrowed his brow. "Dude. Then why the _fuck_ did you call me out here? I have important things to attend to back in Italy, you know. Romano is trying to convince his brother to leave Germany, but Italy refuses. There has been a lot of teary Italian from Italy and angry Italian from Romano...makes me wish I spoke the language better." He shrugged. "There's a war on, in case you hadn't noticed, all locked up here in your safe little _Nazi-occupied bubble_, and I don't have for 'I don't know.' If that's all you have, I'm going back."

France's hand shot out to grab America's shoulder. "No! Hear me out first, at least."

"I'm listening," America said coldly.

"I was a leader of the French Resistance. We stormed the Nazi headquarters here in Paris. Most of us got out, but Germany recognized me, and, a few days later, showed up at my apartment and arrested me. I don't think that violated the immunity rules about personifications, since he arrested me for my involvement in the Resistance, not me being France. He proceeded to attempt to get information out of me-he even forced me to watch the overly brutal execution of one of my own people." France showed America the scars around his wrists from the rope bindings that day. "Angleterre and I decided to escape. It was all planned out, but Germany caught us. England held Germany off so that I could get out. I went back, in disguise, of course, a few days later, to ask after him, but all anyone knew was that he had been deported."

"To where?" It was barely more than an exhale shaping words.

"That is what I do not know," France admitted. "I just thought you should know, at least."

"Thank you…" America said in a strangled voice, and France realized with a start that the younger, more powerful nation was crying. He slowly and carefully gathered him into a hopefully comforting hug, and America clung to him.

"_Merci_," he managed between sobs, and France just held him.

* * *

The ones who had been there a while told them the truths that Prussia hadn't. They were in a work camp, not a death camp, but that didn't mean they would live. Rather, instead of being killed straight off the bat, they would be worked until they died.

Food was scarce, and what little there was was hardly adequate. The guards were sadistic bastards. Avoid anyone with a pink triangle-they were used by the guards for target practice. Get to know people, but don't get overly attached-it was always a possibility that your friends could be chosen in selection for a death march. Trust no one.

None of that would be overly difficult for England. After all, he had lived on scarce and inadequate food under a sadistic bastard for the past two years. And, as a personification, he already knew better than to get attached to humans. Even under the best circumstances they died far too soon.

He could survive here.

He had to.

* * *

Roll call was hell, England decided. They all had to stand in the plaza for what felt like an eternity as the guards went through the number of every single person in the camp. And then there were the random selections. He was fairly certain that the guards had orders from Prussia not to select him-he could hardly explain the _not dying_ piece, after all-but it still made him very nervous. And knowing that the humans were dying around him every day was really not good for him either. He was centuries old, of course he had experienced death before, and on a massive scale, but this was different. This was systematic murder.

Systematic murder and not one German blinked an eye. Systematic murder and Prussia laughed at the tears on a new-made widow or orphan's face. Systematic murder and no one tried to stop it. Systematic murder and the rest of the world didn't care.

He wasn't even in a death camp.

He had been in Buchenwald a week.

* * *

England, along with all the other able-bodied men (although it was unsure how much longer any of them would remain able-bodied), had been sent to hard labor and heavy lifting. He thanked years of training with various military leaders, as well as his pirate years, for even as small, seemingly frail, battered, and malnourished as he was, England found himself easily keeping up with, and often outpacing, the bigger, supposedly stronger, men.

Most of the Germans treated him like any other prisoner, but Prussia seemed intent on making his life a living hell. Prussia had always been obnoxious, but this was hundreds of times worse than before, most likely because England was his prisoner.

There were people who had been in the camps for months, even years. England didn't know how they did it. He had thought that surviving would be simple enough, especially compared to his experiences over the past two years.

Hell, had he ever been wrong.

* * *

America was trying so hard to not think about England having been deported, and so it almost came as a relief to hear that Japan had invaded India. He himself was still in Europe, but it gave him something else to think about.

"If we don't stop them," he murmured softly to the oppressive silence, "Japan and Germany are going to take over the world." It was a terrifying proposition.

But they were going to stop them. Of course they were. They had to. America had the feeling that if the Axis won the war, then every single country on the planet would be absorbed into either Germany or Japan, and millions more people would die. Certainly anyone of Jewish heritage, but also anyone who opposed either nation, as well as the homosexuals, gypsies...and the other personifications.

He would fight would fight to the death to prevent that from happening. America would die for his people. He had always been more than willing to just that. That was why he actively fought in his wars, not simply taking on the "safe" role of commander and advisor like so many other nations. That was why he wore no rank insignia. That was one thing that set him apart from the others like him around the world. He preferred to be just another one of his men.

* * *

There was a young boy in their barrack, no older than seven years old, and all alone. The men had taken the boy under their collective wing, sheltering him from as many of the horrors as they could, giving him part of their limited food so he didn't go hungry (or _as_ hungry, anyway), and comforting him when he cried.

It was the middle of the night when it happened. They were all crammed onto the planks that were masquerading as bunks, the boy curled between England and the next man (England found that the boy reminded him of a child America, and so felt especially protective of him, much more so than was safe).

The doors burst open and everyone jumped, looking around with wide, frantic eyes.

England quickly scanned the Germans there, giving a sigh of relief, one he almost hated himself for, when he saw that Prussia was not among them.

"What...what do you want?" one of the men, who had been a rabbi of many years in his former life, his life before the Nazis, choked out, asking the question they were all too frightened to pose. England held his breath, waiting for a gunshot to ring out and the man to collapse.

To his surprise, that didn't happen.

"We heard." a soldier drawled lazily, leaning on the door frame as if he didn't have a care in the world, "that you all banded together to take care of some boy. Where is he?"

A flurry of whispers broke out, and the man scowled. "Now!"

Quietly, England helped the boy forward, squeezing his hand.

The soldier used the end of his rifle to bring the boy's chin up. The boy was shaking, clearly terrified, but he was trying so hard not to show it. England bit his lip. The boy really was similar to America.

"Relax," the guard said. "We aren't going to hurt you."

The boy relaxed visibly, and another German pulled out his pistol and shot the boy clean between the eyes.

"You said you wouldn't hurt him!" England snapped, not caring about the consequences.

The man who had shot the boy made to shoot England, too, but the other soldier stopped him. "That's Beilschmidt's pet prisoner. You know we can't touch him." He leered at England. "We didn't hurt him. He died immediately.

Before anyone could say anything else, the German soldiers left, leaving the body of the boy crumpled on the floor. A few men moved it carefully and reverently as England stared at the door.

"Beilschmidt's pet prisoner." Prussia had probably forbidden anyone to harm England as so not to have to explain certain strange things. Being a nation made things like that hard.

Thinking of that made England wonder how Germany could stand the murder of so many of his people. That was hardly common for any nation.

Ah, well, he thought. Just one more mystery of this fucking war.

* * *

**I'm really hoping that I don't have to go into the specifics of concentrations camps more than I did in the chapter proper; they were terrible, terrible things and I really don't want to have to try to put all that into words.**

**Also, I'm sorry about Prussia; it's historically accurate that the Nazis used both Prussian soil and troops. As such, Prussia, like Germany, has no choice in his involvement in terrible things.**


	13. Chapter 13

_"Light thinks it travels faster than anything, but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has gotten there first and is waiting for it." -Terry Pratchett_

* * *

**June 1944**

* * *

It had been almost three years since England had first kissed America, and over two years since he had vanished.

America worried.

He was pacing back and forth, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, not caring about his other duties.

Romano stared at him. "What is your fucking problem, hamburger bastard?" There was no malice in his tone, just a sort of curiosity.

"England," America murmured. Only he and France knew about the true nature of England's disappearance-after telling him, France had promised that the news was now only America's to share.

Romano looked unimpressed. "Wasn't the tea bastard captured like two years ago?"

"Yeah…" America nodded. "But he's vanished again. France says that he was deported. That means...god knows what. He's just vanished; he could be anywhere. Dead, in a camp, held in Berlin itself...there's no way of knowing."

"He can't be dead," Romano said, surprisingly tenderly. America pretended not to notice the tone. "His country still exists, unoccupied and independent. There is no reason England should-could, even-be dead. We still don't know where the hell he is, and he could be anywhere, maybe not doing so well, but he can't be dead." He laid a hand on America's shoulder, oddly and frighteningly comforting.

"Are you okay?" America asked without thinking. "You're acting...odd."

Romano snatched his hand back immediately. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, hamburger bastard!"

America just arched an eyebrow, and Romano deflated. "When I was a kid, Spain would leave for weeks, even months, at a time, off being a fucking conquistador. I didn't miss him! More like...he was supposed to take care of me, you know? If he died, I wouldn't have been so well off myself. So I would check every once in a while to make sure that Spain was still a country, a country on its own and in its own right. And since Spain was always still a country, I knew the tomato bastard was okay. It should be the same for England."

Alfred was silent for a moment, then whispered, "_Grazie_."

Romano gave a half-smile, surprising America, who thought that the Italian reserved such expressions only for his brother and Spain. "You're welcome, hamburger bastard."

* * *

They had hardly talked, even among themselves or to themselves, since the murder of the boy, now two weeks past. It was as if they had been shocked into silence-or scared into silence. England wasn't sure which.

He fingered the red triangle on his shirt, cursing Germany silently as he stood in the square. He wasn't sure whether or not the nation had ever set foot in a camp, but he had to know what went on inside them. After all, he was a high-ranking official, not to mention the personification of the nation committing the atrocities. He had to know.

And, even if Germany didn't, Prussia clearly did. _He_ was in a camp as a guard.

Speak of the devil, England thought as Prussia approached.

The albino grinned maliciously at England, and England fought the urge to swear at him. It would only make whatever hell Prussia had in mind that much worse.

"With me," Prussia ordered.

England knew that he risked punishment for breaking ranks and that his leaving would likely force the count to start over, making the others angry with him, but, on the other hand, he risked worse punishment for ignoring a direct order. With a sigh he headed towards Prussia, who started off at a fast pace.

England raised his eyebrows when he saw where they were heading. This area of the camp was much nicer than the rest, but, then again, of course it was. The Germans would hardly live in the same conditions they subjected their prisoners to.

"What are we doing here?" England dared to ask.

"Shut up," Prussia replied distractedly, leading England into one of the houses, and then to a smaller office.

Before Prussia could even say anything, England saw the pile of paperwork and understood. Prussia was going to use him as a secretary. It was a task that only he, as another personification, could do. No one else could even see the paperwork that being a personification required. Like so much else they did, even their existence, it was top secret.

"Sit," Prussia ordered, gesturing at the wooden chair at the desk. "I assume you know what you're doing."

England nodded as he sat, pulling the pile of paperwork towards him.

For the next several hours England worked and Prussia supervised, giving information where needed and signing papers as England finished them. It was surprisingly relaxing—England had always hated paperwork, as did all the personifications, but it was familiar, a sort of North Star in the unpredictable hell he was living in.

Finally, they were done with paperwork for the day and Prussia escorted England back to his usual task of hard labor.

As he worked, England wondered what had become of his own paperwork. He hoped and prayed that there wasn't an accumulated two years' worth of paperwork on his desk in London. That would be a new kind of hell entirely, and not one he thought he could deal with after everything else he had been through in the time span. It took long enough to do paperwork as it came in. Two years' worth would take him days of non-stop work. It was a personification's nightmare.

A shot rang out, uncomfortably close to his head, scattering fragments of rock. One sliced England across the cheek and he swore in pain. But he knew that it had been a warning shot telling him to keep working. He had stopped for a moment, distracted by details related to his status as a nation.

That was how he was going to end up getting himself seriously injured, though not killed. He couldn't be killed. Prussia would have told him if his country had fallen—rubbed it in, mocked him.

England shook his head hard. He needed to focus.

They were digging trenches, bombing trenches for the inhabitants of the camp and even possibly the German guards. The guards did have their own underground bunkers; that much was common knowledge, but there was always the possibility of unexpected raids making it impossible for the guards to get to safety. The prisoners had to make do with the trenches regardless.

The shovel had, at first, left terrible blisters on England's hands, hands more suited to holding a pen or a gun than a shovel, but those blisters had, over time, hardened into calluses, for which he was grateful. But, on the other hand, the job was not getting easier, as it should have been. He should have been gaining muscle, but the malnutrition made that impossible. Just like the others being held with him, England was not being fed enough to support the level of work he was being expected to do.

Children died quickly here, starving to death as their tiny frames withered away or worked to death by the expectation placed on them to do the same amount of work as their adult counterparts. Regardless of how they went, they died in pain.

It made England wonder if the boy so calmly murdered those weeks ago was really one of the lucky ones.

England drew in a harsh breath, nearly dropping his shovel as he realized that he had not thought of America since the boy had died. With that came the much more painful realization that he was forgetting the little things—the feel of America's arms around him, the twinkle in those bright blue eyes, the sound of America's voice. It killed him to realize that he was losing those things, the things he had tried so hard to cling to.

His mind raced as he dug, trying to focus on America, or at least the America of his memories. But this made England panic—what if he was remembering America wrong? What if his memories were wrong? What would happen to him if he finally got out of here and America wasn't who he remembered? He was wrong—the forgetting wouldn't kill him, it would just hurt him badly. If he was to find out that he had misremembered America—_that_ would kill him.

God, there was so much that could go wrong, even if he made it out of the camp with no problems.

* * *

Germany had to admit that, for all of his other faults, Prussia wrote excellent reports. It probably came from his years as the Kingdom of Prussia, a major European power.

Regardless of the reason for their quality, those excellent reports added to the fact that Germany trusted Prussia entirely, not to mention that they were the reason that Germany had placed Prussia at Buchenwald with England. He knew that he would know every single last important thing.

Germany pulled one of those reports towards him. It was one of the ones focusing solely on England, really the only thing from Buchenwald that Germany cared about at that point. He would look at the papers about the rest of the camp later.

There really wasn't much of interest, which was good. The boy he had been helping protect was dead. Prussia had used England as a secretary to do paperwork. The captive nation was working like he should have been. He wasn't causing any problems. Everything seemed good.

Having read that, Germany started going through other reports, both from Prussia and other guards, which spoke of the camp itself. It was all calm and normal enough, a relief for Germany, who had enough to deal with already, as the Allies were approaching.

* * *

_All's fair in love and war._ The mantra kept running through America's head. But it wasn't true. Not with the current war laws. The war laws that it was becoming clear Germany had ignored. America was hearing more and more stories of German atrocities. Rape, murder, using infants for target practice…it was making America sick. And this had been going on for _years_ now. He couldn't believe that he had ever been neutral.

An Italian burst into America's borrowed office without bothering to knock. "Vargas needs to speak to you."

America nodded, standing. "I'll go see him."

As he approached Romano's office, America could hear the indistinct murmur of voices. He could pick out Romano, louder and harsher than the other, but he could neither recognize the other voice nor tell what they were saying.

He knocked carefully.

"Come in!" Romano shouted.

America opened the door slowly, easing his way in to see an irate Romano sitting on a whining Italy.

"We caught my fucking idiot of a brother," Romano announced.

"I see that," America replied, looking at Italy, who stared up at him in return, eyes huge and not closed, for once.

"America…" he whimpered. "Help."

America just frowned. "Why should I? You were at war with me and you continued to resist even after your country joined the Allies. And besides, I doubt Romano is actually hurting you all that much. You're fine and you can stay there. If he got up, you would probably bolt." Italy was trying to shake his head and America narrowed his eyes. "You know it's true. And, even more to the point, you've been siding with Germany. Do you have any idea what he's done to England?"

"N-no…" Italy squeaked.

America sighed. "Technically, neither do I. But he's been held for two years, tortured, I'm sure. And now he's vanished. Got sent to a concentration camp, France and I think. Germany's been hurting all of us. He us not a good person, Italy, not with Hitler and the Nazis running him. They've ruined him these past ten years. He can rebound, of course—it's hardly his fault; he'll be better once we get the Nazis kicked out of power. But for the time being he's more than toxic and deadly dangerous."

Italy's eyes were huge. "Germany?" he managed. Then he burst into tears.

"You can get up," America murmured to Romano. "He's not going to try anything or run."

Romano stood and, true to America's words, Italy did nothing but stay on the floor, sobbing. "But Germany is my friend!" he wailed, and Romano sighed.

"Veneziano, you know how sometimes our bosses do bad things and we go a little crazy and are forced to be the same as them?"

Italy nodded shakily.

"This is just like that. Germany's people and fuckin Hitler are forcing him to be crazy, be bad, and do bad things. He's not the same person as your friend was. But just wait and that potato bastard you fawn over will be back. The Allies are going to win this fucking war and that is going to be a good thing for Germany. They'll get the Nazis out of power, just like the hamburger bastard said, and then you'll get _your _Germany back, I promise." He rolled his eyes. "For better or for worse."

Italy looked like he was going to start crying again. "_Grazie_, Romano."

Romano rolled his eyes again. "Don't get used to it."

* * *

Following an unexpected call from his boss, America found himself having to leave Romano to deal with Italy on his own, as he was to lead a very important storming of Nazi-occupied territory.

Just a few hours after leaving Italy he joined a new division of his men off the coast of France and was ushered immediately to the command center.

Four men looked up as America entered command, one in an American uniform, one in a British uniform, and two in Canadian uniform, one Canada himself.

America approached the one in his own uniform. "General Eisenhower?" When the man nodded, America offered his hand. "I'm Alfred F. Jones. President Roosevelt sent me here."

Soon enough, America knew their plans and was fully ready for the morning's attacks. He was sent off with Canada to get some sleep until they were needed again.

The brothers were quiet as they walked to their assigned cabin, neither one sure what to say or really having the energy to say it. It was just nice to be together again.

When America was woken in the morning by a wide-eyed boy, Canada was already gone.

"This is my first mission," the boy whispered as America got dressed. "Got drafted four months ago. You?"

America shook his head. "I've been doing this for ages. Since the start of the war. This is the first time I've been allowed in France, though. Well, officially, anyway. I was here unofficially while on leave to see a friend." He stood. "Shall we?"

The boy—he looked no more than eighteen, and his youth made America's heart ache—nodded, leading America up to the boats they'd be using to approach Normandy.

"We spread false information about our landing site," Eisenhower informed America. "We expect there to be a small force at the beach, but not much. This attack should be as smooth as anything ever is in war."

America grinned. "Great. Let's do this." He climbed into the boat he'd been assigned to, greeting the other men there, a combination of American, British, and Canadian forces. "I'm Alfred," he said cheerily, trying to raise morale as best as he could. "We're finally going to free France!"

The men responded half-heartedly at best and America sighed. "Really? We're at what could be a turning point in this fucking war and that's all I get?"

They just stared at America as if he was crazy and he sighed. "Fine. Whatever."

Finally, they reached the furthest point the boats could go and America jumped into the water, heading towards the beach. The water impeded his motion, especially weighed down as he was with supplies and equipment, but it didn't matter. He, and all the other men, had determination on their side. They would make it. They all knew that freeing France meant that they were one step closer to driving the Nazis out of Europe and winning the war.

They did, of course, meet resistance, but it was nothing they couldn't handle. And then, when America stood atop a hill beside his brother and a British commander, each of them holding their respective flags, he noted an unsurprising amount of pride in what they had done. They were in France. They were that much closer to winning.

"Amerique, Canada," murmured a heavy voice and America turned to find himself crushed next to his brother in a sudden embrace. The first thing he registered was a mop of blond hair tied back with a red, white, and blue ribbon and—was France _crying_?

France pulled away, wiping his eyes awkwardly. "I apologize. It's just…" He started crying again.

America smiled. "I understand. You're finally tasting freedom again after so long."

* * *

There was an unbearable amount of noise and England was about ready to scream. He just needed to sleep—they all did. So why the hell was everybody being so bloody loud? And worse, in a way, they weren't even properly loud. It was just a lot of whispering and movement.

He sat up, running his hands through the returning stubble of blond hair and looked around the barrack. Everyone was murmuring to each other and casting wary looks around the room. Something was going on, something it seemed that everyone except England knew about, and it was going to be big.

David, one of the men England shared a bunk with, crept over to him. "We're staging a breakout. You joining us?"

England bit his lip. He definitely wanted out, but he knew that the escape attempt wasn't likely to work and he did have his people to consider. He didn't want to think about what Germany might do to them if he escaped, or tried to.

"I can't," he admitted.

David looked terrified. "Please don't tell the guards. Please, Arthur."

England shook his head. "Of course I won't. I just really can't come with you. I'd love to, but I can't."

"Why not?" David asked, insistent.

"You know Beilschmidt, the albino guard?" David nodded and England continued. "He knows me personally—knew me before the war—and the Germans have my…family." England felt sure that anything he did that could be against the rules would be taken out on his people—or America, if the Axis could get their hands on him. "If I do anything out of line, Beilschmidt will ensure that they suffer."

"You know Beilschmidt personally?"

England nodded. "He was actually sent here because of me."

David's eyes went huge. "I knew you're a political prisoner, but you're _that important_?"

England grinned crookedly. "Yes, lad, I'm that important."

_If only you knew._

* * *

The men who had stayed behind gathered nervously the next morning. They knew that whether or not the others had gotten out successfully that they would still be punished. It was how the Germans worked.

The fate of the would-be escapees, however, had been obvious as soon as they had stepped outside. The bodies, ten of them, were still lying where they had fallen, some shot and killed cleanly, others less so.

"Line up!" a German guard barked. "Single file."

There was a sense of general unease, one growing into terror, as they did as they had been ordered. Something was going to happen, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be good.

The guards were counting. That seemed bad enough in and of itself—and then the shooting started. Every seventh person they shot. They watched carelessly, pausing only to make sure that the victim really was dead.

England did a quick count. He would be a seventh person. That was going to be a problem.

The guards approached England and Prussia cut in. "Not him. He's extremely important, a higher up in the British government. We can use him as leverage—leverage against both the Brits and the Americans." He glared at the others, daring them to argue.

None did, and England was hardly surprised. Instead, they moved on, counting as if England wasn't even there.

England just looked down, pretending he knew nothing of what was happening. He hated this, the casual slaughter of humans. He knew more died in war, but this was different. These were civilians and this was cold-blooded murder. The Nazis were acting like they were gods.

Gods and monsters.

And the deaths, despite not being of his own people, were taking a toll on England. He wasn't sure how many more humans he could watch die. He was a personified nation—he should be doing something.

But, of course, he couldn't. Germany and Prussia had made sure of that by locking him in this infernal camp.

England felt completely useless. There was no point to a personification who couldn't even protect humans—any like that, frankly, didn't deserve to be a personification.

He couldn't wait to get out of the fucking hellhole he was currently ensnared in. And then he could actually be useful again, not just the dead weight he was currently.

How much longer could the war last?

* * *

He was going mad. He was going actually, properly stark raving insane. He was willfully murdering hundreds—thousands—millions of his people, and it was driving him insane. He could feel the blood coating his hands and he didn't…fucking…care.

Yes, Germany was going insane. A beautiful, beautiful insanity. And he welcomed it with open arms. He embraced it. His mind was a small price to pay to prove he was right. And damn straight he was going to prove to every single nation that ever doubted him that he was right and that _he_ was the only world power.

* * *

**I am so, so sorry for vanishing as long as I did. I went to college, for one, and I also kind of fell out of the fandom a bit. I promise that this entire work is finished-I just need to type it. I'll try not to wait almost a year again. So sorry.**


End file.
